


Through the Looking Glass

by AislingSiobhan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislingSiobhan/pseuds/AislingSiobhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[LV/HP] When Harry was little he used to wish that his twin brother was the chosen one. His brother used to wonder what it would be like to know the Dark Lord. Once he becomes old enough, Tarrant runs away to join Voldemort, who accepts him, thinking he is Harry – his mate. But he isn’t. Harry is still fighting against him, and as the war begins to escalate Voldemort fears losing Harry before he’s even found him. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 01

Now, thank you to Star_Faerie for beta-ing this, and to everyone else: ENJOY! 

* * *

“Through the Looking Glass”

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, et all are property of JK Rowling, and Bloomsbury, and Warner Bros and all those other nifty people that make it so we can read and watch the Potterverse whenever we feel like it. I make no money from this and I own nothing, just so you know.  
Summary: [LV/HP] When Harry was little he used to wish that his twin brother was the chosen one. His brother used to wonder what it would be like to know the Dark Lord. Once he becomes old enough, Tarrant runs away to join Voldemort, who accepts him, thinking he is Harry – his mate. But he isn’t. Harry is still fighting against him, and as the war begins to escalate Voldemort fears losing Harry before he’s even found him. AU.  
Warnings: Slash. Eventual LV/HP. Violence. AU. Language. Character Death. Creature!Voldemort. Light!Harry. Dark!Voldemort. Twin fic.  
Rating: NC-17. Slash and Violence.  
A/N: I was originally going to make New Divide a twin fic, but I couldn’t bear the thought of a non-Harry BWL… Hmm… so this is what you get instead! Trust me, you’ll like it. I don’t think anyone else had done it this way, yet, but if I’m wrong, correct me! 

XXX

The adventures first… explanations take such a dreadful time – The Gryphon: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  
One of the deep secrets of life is that all that is really worth the doing is what we do for others – Lewis Carroll.  
But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then – Alice: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

Words: 3,926  
Chapter 1  
February 1980.

Lily didn’t think she had ever been so excited in her life. Of course, receiving her Hogwarts letter and having Severus explain that it was all true, that magic really was real, came very close. But this! Nothing could ever make her happier than in this moment. 

“Twins?” She asked, repeating what the medi-Witch had just told her. “I’m having twins?” 

At her side, James grinned widely. Her husband had been practically bouncing in his seat, excited and nervous in equal parts as they waited for the verdict. 

“Boys or girls?” He asked, running a hand through his messy black hair. 

Lily and James both held their breath. Did they want girls, to dress in frills and lace and spoil rotten, or did they want boys, one to be an heir to the Potter fortune and the other who would obviously be a famous Quidditch star, inheriting all of his father’s talent, or did they want one of each, the best of both worlds? 

The medi-Witch waved her wand again over Lily’s exposed stomach. “Hmm,” she said a soft smile on her face. “This one is definitely a boy, but this one, well; I can’t quite get a clear reading. You little man is getting in the way.” Both parents frowned slightly, disappointed, but understood that there was nothing Poppy could do at the moment. “Maybe at the next check-up, hmm?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for your time, Poppy,” Lily said, sitting up with a soft smile on her face. James helped her pull down her shirt, and likewise thanked their friend. “Well we better be going. Sirius and Remus are probably tearing the Manor apart waiting for us to come back.” 

The resident medical person of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry offered her colleague and Lily’s husband warm smiles each, before she left them alone. Poppy Pomfrey bustled around the ward, tidying this and that before making her way into her office. Lily fixed her clothes properly, and allowed James to pull her up off of the bed. 

“One boy for sure!” He grinned, wide and proud, before gathering his wife into his arms and swinging her around in a wide circle. “I’m so happy!”

“Me too, love, me too,” she whispered against his cheek. 

“Come on, let’s go home.” James wrapped an arm loosely around her waist, his fingertips brushing through the ends of her long, red hair as he guided her towards the fireplace. In times like these, where there were Dark Lords attacking every which way at any given time, James knew the benefits of flooing directly to their destination. He didn’t want to risk St Mungos, because while it might have been a brilliantly staffed hospital, it was still vulnerable to Death Eater attacks. But Hogwarts was safe, it would always be safe. Dumbledore was there, and if Lord Voldemort had ever been afraid of anyone it was Dumbledore. Using Hogwarts’ medi-Witch meant that the Potters didn’t have to worry about being attacked en route, or about someone finding out about their twins and telling the media or the Dark Lord. 

“What does this mean for the prophecy?” Lily asked hesitantly, as the fireplace sprang to life. Green flames burned brightly, and Lily climbed in first then shifted over to make room for her husband. 

“I don’t know,” James admitted. “Potter Manor!” He called, throwing down a handful of green floo power. The flames began to swirl, and Lily closed her eyes as she leant against her husband, one arm around his neck and the other cradling her distended stomach. “I don’t know,” he repeated as the flames swept them away. 

XXX 

Potter Manor was a large, sprawling building that spanned a good few acres of land. James knew it had nothing on Malfoy Manor, or some of the older Pureblood homes, but he was proud of it regardless. It was bright and airy, large, spacious and welcoming. It was home as far as he was concerned, and it was a damned sight better than any of the Black homes he had been unfortunate enough to have visited. 

Sirius was easily able to admit that his old ancestral home was a hole, dark and dank and reeking of Dark magic, and he hated it. He was much more at home in James’ house, a fact verified simply by his actually living there. Sirius hadn’t gone home in years, not since he was a fifth year in Hogwarts, not since the Potters Sr. had invited him to live with them. He was James’ brother in all but blood, though technically they were cousins so they were blood related, but James loved him like a brother and that was all that mattered. 

It was why James had to ask, “Will you be my firstborn’s Godfather?” 

Sirius stared back at him, looking a little stunned, and at his side their other friend Remus nudged the shocked man on the shoulder. “Y-Yes, yes of course,” he stuttered, unable to believe the honour that was being bestowed upon him. 

“Stop your smirking, Remus Lupin,” James added, grinning. “We like you to be our other child’s Godfather. Well, I would anyway. I get to pick one Godfather for each twin, and Lily gets to pick the other. She was talking to Alice Longbottom by floo earlier, so maybe she’ll be Harry’s godmother?”

“Harry?” Remus asked, now looking as shell-shocked as Sirius. 

“Yeah, we’re naming out firstborn after my father, well if it’s the boy obviously. And if the firstborn is a girl, well then the second child gets to be Harry.” James nodded towards Peter, who had just stepped out of the floo. 

Peter was their other friend, mostly a whiny coward, a little large around the middle with thinning fair hair, but he was a good man when it counted. Though James hadn’t really seen him as much since Lily found out she was pregnant. Actually, at that announcement back in December, Peter had looked rather horrified and suddenly realised he had somewhere else to be. It was a good thing they had never bothered telling Peter of the prophecy Dumbledore had shared with them; the poor man might have fainted dead away. Remus didn’t know either, not because they didn’t trust him, but because the less people who knew the safer the babies were. But Sirius knew. Sirius always knew if it were something within James’ power to share with him. 

“Other child?” Peter asked in his usual nasal tone. He cleared his throat, nodding in greeting to his other friends. 

Sirius, Peter, Remus and James had been thick as thieves in Hogwarts. Even once they had found out that Remus was a werewolf, it hadn’t affected their friendship. Yes, Peter was a little bit more wary of being alone with the quiet, tawny haired boy, but they were still friends. There was nothing that could affect their friendship, James thought, glancing happily around the room. And yet while James thought as much, Peter knew that the reality of the situation was much, much different. Peter was a Death Eater – not that Peter would ever tell them that – and that of course would end their friendship. Peter wasn’t really in a good enough position with his Lord to risk alienating the possible Chosen One.

“Other child?” Peter asked again, just as Lily made her way back into the room. She froze upon seeing him; she smiled tightly as she greeted him. Peter whispered ‘hello’ back, swallowing again. Lily had never liked him, so he had been rather surprised when she had hugged him and told him she was pregnant. His apparent disgust at the thought had spiralled her back into the ‘disliking Peter’ category of people now though. Really, he was happy for his friends, he was, but couldn’t they have chosen a month other than November to have conceived a child? Why did their child, out of all of the people in the world, have to be due at the end of July. 

“I’m having twins,” she told him stiffly. 

He almost asked what that meant for the prophecy, but bit his tongue. He wasn’t meant to know, no one had told him (except his Lord) and to have even mentioned it would have been disastrous. “Oh,” he said instead, “congratulations then. Do you have any names picked?”

“If it’s a girl, I’d like to name her Alice.” Originally Lily had wanted to continue the tradition of naming the Evans girls’ after flowers, but during the earlier stages of her pregnancy she had begun reading “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, and then later “Through the Looking Glass”, and it was during the second book, as she read out loud a paragraph of Alice’s that the babies first began to kick. She had been worried by their lack of movement, terrified that perhaps they had died in the womb even though they continued to grow because they never shifted (but that was probably due to how little space they had as they were sharing, she now guessed). And with that first kick, she had fallen in love with them all over again, and thanked Lewis Carroll and James Potter and Alice herself every time her babies continued to kick. 

“Of course Lily flower. And if the other child is a boy?” Sirius ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back behind his ears. It was almost shoulder length and curly; greyish eyes looked up curiously through the dark curtain his fringe made. 

“Well,” Lily said, glancing sideways at James, “we were thinking of using another of Lewis Carroll’s characters.” Remus understood the reference to Alice, but neither of the other two did being Purebloods and not big readers of Muggle literature. “My favourite is Tarrant, the Mad Hatter. Though James wants to call him Caterpillar or Oyster.” The look she sent her husband made it clear what she thought of those ideas. 

“Mate,” Sirius chuckled, “what is wrong with you! That poor kid!” He nudged Remus, who couldn’t help but agree with a laugh. They turned to Peter, expecting him to join in, but the man only stared at Lily’s stomach sadly, wringing his hands in front of his own. 

“So one boy for sure, yeah? What about the other? I mean, there’s got to be a way of telling right? Is the boy the oldest?” Peter questioned, trying to look like he was interested, but all the while he was wondering what his Lord would think. Twins weren’t very common (with the exception of that Weasley woman there hadn’t been twins born in ages in Britain), so perhaps one of them was the prophecy child? They’d probably be powerful enough, or maybe sharing magic with a twin would make them weaker than average children? 

“There’s no way of telling that, Peter,” Remus told him, looking rather confused. “Whichever one is born first is born first. But Lily said the medi-Witch will check the genders again at her next check-up. It’s in…” He trailed off, looking over at his pregnant friend. 

“A month and a half, Peter, until we know for sure.” Lily brushed her hair out of her face, and turned. She made her way back out of the room, not noticing how Peter stared at her back or how he hurriedly turned to his friends and made hasty goodbyes. 

“Really weird,” Sirius commented. 

“He really changed after graduation, didn’t he?” James noted, frowning slightly. “He wasn’t too happy about the babies either, was he?”

“Perhaps,” Remus began, thinking about the way that Peter had been rubbing his left forearm just before he disappeared into the floo system. Then he thought about it, laughing softly to himself at the idea that Peter, of all people, could be a Death Eater; the boy didn’t have the backbone, he wouldn’t have lasted a day at Voldemort’s side, and so Remus muttered the only thing he could think of that might fit. If it wasn’t because Peter was their enemy then perhaps it was because, “he’s jealous?” 

“What?” Both Sirius and James shouted at the same time. 

“I don’t know,” Remus added with a shrug and a blush, “maybe he fancies Lily, or you James, and thought you’d break up after graduation. But then you got married, and you’re having a family, and maybe he’s afraid of being left behind! Sirius and I are the children’s Godfathers, and Peter, well he’s just Peter, you know.”

James frowned. He felt a little sorry for his friend, because in all honest they had been leaving him out a little, and then he also felt bad for Remus, because they had never told Remus their secret. “Maybe I can convince Lily to let Peter be the other Godfather to one of the kids? Maybe Tarrant, cause then Lily gets to pick one for our heir - that should go a bit towards softening her up, yeah?”

“Sure,” Remus replied, his voice soft and unconcerned. “It might make Peter happier too.” 

“Actually, Remus, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” James grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down onto the sofa beside him. Sirius watched, hunched against the fireplace, with wide eyes as he waited for what he knew was coming. “There’s this prophecy right, and it says that a kid will be born in July who will have the power to defeat the Dark Lord.”

“Vanquish,” Sirius butted in loudly, “vanquish the Dark Lord.” 

“Yeah, that,” James agreed easily, not really seeing the difference. But Remus did, and his eyes narrowed slightly at what it all could mean. “But Albus thinks that maybe Harry could be that child, or Frank and Alice’s son, but now, with twins, it could be either of them. But, yeah, I just thought you should know.” 

Remus looked between Sirius and James, the only real friends he had ever known (not including Peter, of course, or Lily), and he frowned. “Well, if we can’t tell which is which, we’ll have to try twice as hard to keep them safe, right?”

“That’s the plan, my furry friend!” James grinned, leaning across the sofa to nudge their shoulders together. “And Lils, gotta keep Lily safe too.”

“Of course,” Sirius whispered as he slunk towards the sofa. He sat down, or actually he lay down, across their laps, head on the armrest by James and feet dangling well past where Remus was sitting and he grinned up at them both. “We’re gonna keep all of us safe, this whole family, nothing is gonna happen to it. I promise.” 

Remus wanted to agree, like James had, and bump his fist against the others’, but he couldn’t. There was this horrible rolling feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t make his eyes look away from the fireplace that Peter had disappeared into. Something was going to happen, Remus knew that just like he knew there was something wrong with Peter. But Peter was his friend, and he was supposed to trust him, just like James and Sirius did… but Lily didn’t, Remus realized. Maybe, he thought, maybe Lily realized something bad was about to happen too, maybe she knew that Peter was hiding something bad, and that’s why she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as him. 

“You ok?” Sirius asked, poking Remus in the chest with his foot. 

“Just thinking,” he answered softly. 

“About what?”

Remus smiled at them, the few lines on his face disappearing beneath his smile. “Just life, you know, the usual.”

XXX 

3rd August 1980. 

It was quiet in the forest, though the wind rushed past and the trees and leaves rattled. He couldn’t hear it. There was only silence, until suddenly footsteps could be heard in front of him, soft and cautious but loud enough to be heard as foliage crunched beneath them on their path. 

“Who are you?” Tom called, glancing around the forest warily. He had been alone for so long, alone and waiting for that one person who would complete him, and yet he had remained alone. But they were here now, he realized as a being stepped into view. He wouldn’t be alone much longer. 

The boy was dark haired with pale skin and bright green eyes. He was a little bit on the short side, but he stood straight and calm and watched as the Dark Lord walked towards him. “Who. Are. You?” The child questioned back, and with each word a ring of smoke blew from between his lips spelling the letters ‘O’, ‘R’ and ‘U’ one by one. 

Tom tilted his head to one side, frowning. He glanced down at his hands, long fingered and pale and frowned as the fingers stretched and grew until they were unnaturally long and most of the flesh melted away, till they were barely bones attached to the end of his palms. Red eyes glanced up, wary and confused as clumps of hair fell from his head, landing with soft squishy noises upon the forest floor. Ears that were faintly pointed at the tips shrunk and vanished, leaving only holes on the sides of his pale, bald head. 

Lord Voldemort snarled as another boy stepped into view. He looked just like the first, but was a little bit taller. Both were, strangely enough, wearing matching pinafores with stripy knee length socks and sunhats. They were both beautiful boys, and yet only one captured his attention. The first boy, the shorter one. He grinned widely, offering a small wave towards the Dark Lord, who slowly began to shift and transform into what he had looked like at the beginning of their meeting. 

“Who. Are. You?” He asked again, voice soft and lilting, and his brother glanced between them both. 

“I am Lord Voldemort.” He watched as the boy smiled softly again, waiting for the Dark Lord to continue. “And you are my mate.”

“Will you come to find me?” the child whispered. He reached a hand out, moving closer so that he was almost able to place it against Voldemort’s cheek; but then his brother was there, slapping the hand away, and pushing him away. Voldemort snarled, lips curling backwards and fingers twisting into claws as the creature within him surged forward to protect what was his. But the boy was gone. Only his mirror image remained, and the longer Tom looked at it, the more he realized that the two boys were really nothing alike. His boy had been beautiful, and while this one looked it, there was nothing good about him. 

The twin grinned widely, lowering himself to one knee as he whispered, “would you not take me instead?” 

Tom turned away. 

And Lord Voldemort awoke with a startled gasp. 

The dreams had been happening nightly since the Potter twins had been born. At first, Voldemort had felt that those dreams meant what he had always secretly believed: Potter was the one to be feared, not the Longbottom child, but with Peter’s news that twins were to be expected, he had changed his mind, targeting poor Neville, and killing him. His parents, he had been told, would never truly recover from Bellatrix’s torture of them or from the death of their only child, but that hadn’t bothered Voldemort. Not until the twins were born mere days later, and Peter had come running to inform him that Harry, the eldest, had cried until his twin entered the world, and as he cried every object within the room had floated almost a foot off of the ground. That kind of accidental magic so early in life was nothing unusual, but to have had such an effect, to have been as strong only led credence to the belief that he had targeted the wrong family. 

Voldemort turned over in his bed. Nagini lay curled on the pillow beside his own, asleep in the place that should have been reserved for his mate. Voldemort looked away at the thought, turning the other way so that he was facing the door. He considered getting up, even as he tugged the blanket up to his neck, and then dismissed the notion. It was early, insanely early in fact and despite the dream he had just experienced he was still tired. And a tired Dark Lord is not an efficient Dark Lord, just an angry one. 

The concept of his having a mate tended to baffle his followers, since they believed him to be a Pureblood like themselves. When in actual fact, Tom Riddle had been born of a Witch and a Muggle, but even that was a lie. Tom Riddle Sr. hadn’t been entirely human either; he wasn’t a Wizard, but he wasn’t a Muggle. His mother might have been, Tom’s grandmother, but she had been seduced and bedded as she wondered alone in the forest by Little Hangleton, but had woken instantly in her bed afterwards and had always believed it to have been some strange dream. However, Tom later had learnt, it had been very real, and his father’s birth had occurred as a result of a faeries mating with a married woman. She gave her husband a son, and never knowing it was not his own flesh and blood he bestowed his surname upon the child, and that child grew up and was seduced and beguiled by Tom’s own mother, and they too had a son, who was abandoned and raised in poverty and not in love. 

Soon, Tom grew up, and he came of age at fifteen, instead of the usual seventeen and was smart enough to know that that meant something. It was then that he had realized he wasn’t a half-blood, instead he was a half-breed; partly human and partly not, but all in all better than belonging to some Muggle filth who was better off forgotten. He was part faerie, and he waited for years and months and days, and lifetimes, for the one who would complete him, for that one other person whose soul and magic and very being would match his own so wholly that they couldn’t be anything other than soulmates. They were rare, many text books had said, and only the most powerful of creatures found them while others carried on their meagre existences mating with the next best thing to cross their paths. But Tom was special, powerful; better than everyone else. He was bound to have a mate. 

Yet they had never appeared. 

He had never stopped believing. He scoured his followers’ families and offspring, hoping to find one that was at least a fraction as strong as he was, and of course they had to be a child, because anyone above the age of fifteen would have matured enough to bond with him and Voldemort would have found them by now. So it was a child he searched for, a strong child, one who was powerful, Dark and his, and he considered briefly whether the Potter twin who wasn’t the chosen one could have been his mate. Voldemort dismissed the thought with a chuckle: his mate was Dark, because he was. 

Lord Voldemort drifted back to sleep, and awoke to find himself in that forest once more, wondering again about the twins he encountered there night after night and what their names were. He never once stopped to consider that perhaps his mate would be Light, if only to balance out his own Dark nature, and make them truly equal in the way that soulmates were meant to be. 

XXX

* * * 

For anyone who is unsure, Lord Voldemort looks like a slightly older Tom Riddle from the Chamber of Secrets scenes (for the moment and unless specified in the dream). Hope you enjoyed chapter 1… chapter 2 is already done, but I’m waiting to see the response to this before I add it and on my beta to finish her RL stuff.


	2. Chapter 02

**Words:** 3,638  
 **Chapter 2**  
31st July 1981. 

With the death of Neville Longbottom, Lily had allowed herself one horrible moment of relief, for if Voldemort went after their child he wouldn’t come after _hers_. 

But soon, she had realized she was wrong, and the guilt had set in. She had cried desperately for days while rocking her precious twins and wishing she could go to Neville’s funeral. But she couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been safe. Albus Dumbledore had insisted that Lord Voldemort was after Harry, or Tarrant, or Harry; they weren’t really sure, but he was definitely after one of her babies. The only way to protect them all was to put them into hiding. And so, on the fourth of August of last year Lily, James and their children had flooed from Hogwarts and straight to a small cottage owned by the Potter family in Godric’s Hollow. It was a small mixed community in Wales, with a few magical folk and a handful of Muggles living together while keeping the Secret a secret. The crime rate was very low, and the people were friendly but kept their distance, and Dumbledore had once lived there himself. He had deemed it the perfect place to go into hiding. 

They had remained there for almost a year now, living comfortably in the cottage they never stepped foot outside of. Sirius was their Secret keeper, the only one who knew where they were apart from Albus. The man himself appeared in the floo, just as the clock chimed midnight, and Lily was the first one out of her seat and in his arms. She hugged him tightly; her face pressed to his beard as she whispered, “it’s so good to see you!”

“And you as well, my dear girl.” Albus greeted her warmly, and then turned to her husband, “Ah hello James, good to see you as well. And oh my! Look how they’ve grown!” Tarrant was sitting on his bum, just at James’ feet. James had stood up as Albus appeared, and he leant down now to scoop his youngest son into his arms. The baby was only two minutes younger than Harry, but fortunately for him that meant that his birthday was actually August 1st, while Harry’s literally was ‘as the seventh month dies’, July 31st. 

“Happy birthday, my boy,” Albus said holding out a small gift. Tarrant reached for it, fingers making grabbing motions and mouth grinning, and Albus gasped, shocked and dismayed, as magic lanced up his arm as the child touched him. 

“Are you ok?” Lily asked, “Sorry! He’s been trying to tickle people with magic lately, mostly Harry though, although Harry had managed it better so that’s probably where Tarrant is learning it from.”

He hadn’t been tickled, and it wasn’t even like he had been given a small shock. What that child had done to him, even accidentally, felt like a rush of Dark magic, something cold and cruel running down his spine, and Albus hadn’t experienced something like it in many years. Not since Grindelwald had left him. 

“It’s alright, Lily,” Albus whispered to her, because what else could he say. He could hardly tell her that touching Tarrant was like shaking the young Tom Riddle’s hand; uncomfortable and chilling.

There was a tense silence. James bounced Tarrant in his arms shifting back down onto the sofa so he could balance the child and help him open his present from Albus. Dumbledore looked around, smiling at the family photographs that decorated the walls and mantelpiece. They were truly beautiful children, but Tom had been a beautiful child too, so innocent looking and yet so deadly beneath it all. Perhaps, Albus prayed, Tom would choose the wrong child and mark Tarrant as his equal despite the wrong birthdate, and then there couldn’t possibly be two Dark Lords. Lord Voldemort could never accept the Saviour as his ally, it was too much of impossibility, too much of an improbability to begin with that Voldemort might share power with anyone at all, let alone an enemy. The child’s soul would be safe, Albus knew, if Tom picked him over Harry. 

And speaking of Harry, Dumbledore was just about to ask where the boy was when he crawled in the doorway. 

“Ah ha! Look what I have for you, dear boy!” Albus chortled, reaching out for the child who continued to crawl towards him, not yet having made any efforts to walk. 

But he could talk. Just a few words here and there, but he was very adept at repeating his mother’s favourite household charms. 

1“Scourgify. Skurge. Tergeo.” Harry yelled one charm after another, one hand pointed towards Albus as if he actually held a wand. He giggled because while nothing actually happened, his parents instantly cooed over him, which was a brilliant result in the one-year-old’s mind. Albus clapped along with Lily and James, offering the boy the praises he sought. 

“Well done,” Albus said, finally close enough to pull the wiggling baby into his arms. He handed over a small wrapped sphere, and Harry tugged excitedly at it until the paper fell away. Tarrant held a matching gift in his hands, yet he didn’t seem to pay it any attention. His arms were held out towards the older Wizard, who was cuddling his twin brother, and yet his twin brother was staring with wide green eyes at the Snitch which activated at his touch and began to flutter around his head. “Happy birthday, little Harry.” 

He handed the child over to his mother, and Lily took him with a wide smile. 

“Sirius and Remus asked me to bring these along,” he said, offering the cards and presents towards Lily. “And Alice sent a card, and she wishes the boys many more birthdays to come.”

“Poor Alice,” James whispered. Lily looked away, feeling guilty again at her thoughts last year, at her relief that it was someone else’s child and not her own in danger. 

“Tell her we said thank you. How is she?”

Albus frowned, “as well as can be expected. They’re still keeping Frank in St Mungos, but Alice had finally been allowed home. Ah, yes before I forget, Peter asked me to pass these along too.” 

Lily placed everything down on the sofa, and she and James left the boys sitting on the floor as they followed Albus into the kitchen. When they were gone, Tarrant stood up, tugging eagerly at the pile of presents. He dropped some down onto the ground so Harry could reach them, still sitting on his bum and looking up at his brother while whispering, “give, give,” softly, pudgy fingers clenching excitedly. 

Peter’s present fell into his lap, and though Tarrant’s name was on the tag Harry grabbed hold of it with a wide grin. He pulled the paper away, tongue poking out of his mouth as he struggled with the wrapping. It was a stone, black and round with a flat bottom, and as Harry’s fingers touched it it began to glow a bright red. The child screamed. Tarrant snatched it from his hands, hoping it would stop his brother from crying, but Harry kept crying. The stone turned black again, and Tarrant stared down at it, perhaps wondering what it had done to make Harry upset. 

The Potters and Dumbledore rushed back inside. Lily grabbed one boy and James the other and Dumbledore reached out to pull the bloodstone from Tarrant’s hand. He frowned, allowing his magic to seep out and surround the object, tasting and testing it and then he frowned angrily.

“Dark magic.” Albus growled, wondering why he hadn’t realized sooner. Then he glanced at the shredded wrapping paper on the ground, frowning once more as he noticed the name on the tag. 

“What was Peter playing at?” James growled, carrying Tarrant further away from the malicious gift. 

“I’ve no idea,” Albus whispered, although, on some level, he could guess. 

_XXX_

Lord Voldemort waited. 

He sat at a long, dark wood table, Death Eaters sitting down either end with him at the head, and by his side Wormtail trembled. Peter was holding a stone that matched the one Tarrant had received, and as it began to glow Voldemort chuckled. 

He had ordered Peter to send the bloodstone to the Potter twins, not because he believed that anything would come of it, but because he was sick of those dreams and wanted to prove that _those_ twins were not the same twins that Peter knew. And yet, they must have been, because the stone had turned bright red in the hands of his mate, and was only now fading to black again.

The stone itself had been made from a special, expensive crystal that Voldemort had ordered another Death Eater to procure, and then infused with the Dark Lord’s own blood. He had added several curses and hexes on the wrapping paper to dissuade idiots from taking the stone from his mate (if either boy turned out to be his mate) and that would mask its Dark presence. As the stones connected, Tarrant’s and Voldemort’s own blood was meant to seek out the other, to bond them on some level so that Voldemort would always know who he was, always find the other in a crowd no matter how large and loud.

And bond to Harry it had, blood-magic seeping in through the skin of the baby’s palm and marking him as another’s mate. And that sort of claim hurt. To a one-year-old, it had hurt more than he had ever imagined anything could hurt, because the only other times he hurt was when his nappy was uncomfortably full or his stomach was uncomfortably empty, but his parents always took care of that pain. But this, what the stone had done, that had been _pain_ , of a different nature, and that was why he had cried. Voldemort knew it would hurt the child, but it wouldn’t permanently harm him, and anyway, Voldemort hadn’t been convinced anything would happen at all. 

“Tarrant Potter,” he whispered to himself, reaching out to take the bloodstone from Peter’s shaking hands. “Isn’t he your Godson, Wormtail?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the trembling man whispered. 

_XXX_

September 1981. 

“S-Sirius!” Peter called loudly. People turned to look at him, and he ducked his head down in embarrassment, hunching his shoulders as if it would make them less likely to see him. 

“What is it Peter?” Sirius turned to ask him. He wasn’t in the best of moods, which was acceptable really considering everyone at the Order meeting had greeted him rather frostily: just after he offered up his own home for their use. That was gratitude for you, he thought angrily, trying to brush off their dirty looks and frosty tones, pretending it didn’t bother him. He didn’t even know what he had supposedly done wrong. 

“I just, well, I, that is to say, I need to tell you something,” Peter finally stuttered out. For a moment Sirius wondered if Peter was going to admit why he had been acting so strangely for almost two years, but instead Peter said, “They think you’re a spy, you know. That’s why they’re acting like that. That’s why Lily and James won’t answer your letters anymore.” 

Sirius’ mouth dropped open in horror. Wide grey eyes pinned Peter in place, searching his face for something – anything – that meant Peter was joking. The rat animagus stared back, blinking and licking his dry lips nervously, but he didn’t look away. Sirius frowned heavily, shaking his head slowly as his hands trembled in shock. “Why?” He asked shakily. 

“Well,” Peter started, and then paused, looking unwilling to continue. “There have been rumours, about you buying the twins Dark gifts and you associating with people in Knockturn Alley and that, well, that you were overheard being rather, you know, nice about You-Know-Who and…” Peter trailed off as Sirius raised his hand, begging silently for silence. 

The poor grey-eyed man had no idea that Peter had been the one to start those rumours. He had followed Sirius to work one day, watched him arrest a thief in Diagon Alley and immediately run back to tell everyone that Sirius had been the one arrested for some wrong doing: apparently, only his money had saved him from Azkaban. That horrible house elf who hated Sirius was more than happy to throw his voice around, to pretend in shadowy corners that he was talking to Sirius and worshiping Lord Voldemort’s name before falling silent just as someone overheard. Peter had owled Lily and James, apologizing desperately after Albus had informed him that one of the twins had been injured by his gift, claiming that Sirius had picked it out because Peter really had no idea what to get a baby. He wasn’t very good with babies, see, and the adult Potters remembered Remus’ words about Peter’s jealousy and reluctance to grow apart and believed him at his word. And poor Sirius was left with the blame, as each of them wondered if their friend had really ever managed to escape his family completely, the practises they shared and the beliefs they held, and the darkness of the blood that ran through their veins. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Sirius whispered. 

“There have also been rumours about You-Know-Who. I heard people whispering in work last Monday.” Peter was a journalist. Well, no, not really; Peter was the man that followed the journalist around, carrying a camera, and trying to look important. But it was unbelievable the amount of things you could overhear on the job, because no one really ever paid much attention to the camera man. “They were saying You-Know-Who was planning to attack Tarrant. Apparently… Apparently he knows where James is hiding him.”

“That’s impossible!” Sirius shouted, cheeks flushing. “I’m the Secret Keeper, and I’ve never breathed a word about it to anyone!” 

“I don’t know… maybe they’re linked somehow? I mean, he must be important if V-V-Vo- You-Know-Who wants to find him so badly, right S-Sirius? Maybe he has other ways to find the twins?”

“Well, what do we do?” Sirius rang his hands in front of his chest, looking frantic with worry. On the one hand he wanted to run to James and Lily and cuddle his godson and their other twin and keep them both safe. But he had never been to visit Godric’s Hollow, not since the spell had been cast, because he didn’t want to risk leading anyone there. But that appeared to have been for nothing, because now the Dark Lord knew where his family was, and Sirius had to warn them. But on the other hand, he wanted to rush off and find the Dark Lord and wring the man’s neck. How dare he threaten his family? How dare the Order believe he was capable of betraying his family? Sirius squeezed his eyes closed tightly, willing the tears not to fall. 

“If anything happens, they’ll blame me won’t they?” He whispered. “James will blame me.”

“Wh-what if, no, no it doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid idea.” Peter looked away, a horrid blush on his pale cheeks. Sirius stared at him, wide eyed still and curious, almost ravenous as he waited for Peter’s miracle suggestion. “Well… why don’t you just swap Secret Keepers? If the guys at work are wrong, and You-Know-Who captures you at least you won’t be able to tell him anything, will you! Because you won’t know!” Peter ducked his head bashfully. He had his fingers crossed behind his back, praying that this would work, because his Lord was waiting on him and on his success. Lord Voldemort did not like failure. 

“Peter!” Sirius practically shrieked, diving forward to catch the chubby man by the shoulders. He shook Peter lightly, laughing up in the man’s face, and for a moment Peter thought Sirius would tell him how stupid he was and walk away, but then he said, “You’re a fucking genius, mate!” 

Peter smiled, trying to look bashful and awed. But he didn’t think he had succeeded. Sirius didn’t notice, but Peter looked more smug than anything else. 

_XXX_

23rd October 1981. 

Sirius had kept Peter’s ‘rumours’ in mind, and once they had changed Secret Keepers everyone in the Order was made aware of Lord Voldemort’s fixation with Tarrant Potter. Tarrant had been moved into Lily and James’ bedroom, so he would be closer to them, so they could protect him better. They had considered sending Harry to live with his other Godfather, Severus Snape, but when Lily had asked Severus had begged her to never ask him again, as he looked around warily for anyone who might have been listening. She had no idea, that like Peter, Severus was a Death Eater too.

Unfortunately, all of their extra protection was for nothing. Lord Voldemort still believed Tarrant to be his mate, and all Peter’s rumours and lies had done was distract attention away from Voldemort’s _real_ target, Harry. 

“My Lord, please!” Severus whispered, crouching down before the Dark Lord. As Voldemort moved along the corridor of Malfoy Manor, Severus awkwardly shuffled after him, unwilling to stand up properly without permission. 

“I have agreed to spare your Mudblood, Snape. What more do you dare ask of me?” The taller man tilted his head to look down upon his Death Eater. 

Severus was frowning, his long dark hair falling in front of his face and his eyes squeezed closed momentarily as he steeled himself. His hands were shaking with fear, but he whispered regardless, begging the Dark Lord for one more life. “My godson, my Lord.”

“Malfoy?” The man snorted, faintly amused. “What has Malfoy done to deserve my ire that I do not know of, Snape?”

“No, Sir. I meant Harry Potter, my other Godson.” Severus had heard the rumours as well of course, that the Dark Lord was after Tarrant only, Lily had even said as much to his face. But he had been wary of taking the boy in while knowing that the Dark Lord would be that much closer to the child outside of the Fidelius’ protection. He wouldn’t risk the child of the only woman he had ever loved, the child that she had begged him to be Godfather to, to love and protect and worship as if he were Severus’ own child regardless of her husband’s protests and their childhood falling out. 

“Impossible. You ask too much of me, Snape.”

“Please, my Lord. If you are only after the one child, please spare my Godson.”

Voldemort looked at the man, eyes narrowed in contemplation. He knew Severus had no desire to marry anyone other than the Mudblood woman, the mother of the twins he sought, and likely Severus would never have any children of his own (not that he’d want them). But Harry seemed to be important to the man, especially since Snape had risked his wrath by begging him twice in as many minutes for the life of an enemy. 

“Do you care for him, Snape?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Perhaps we shall say that Harry Potter is the chosen one, and not his brother, would you still beg for his life then, my friend?” 

Severus swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat aching. “I- I, my Lord, that is to say,” he murmured, pursing his lips. “But he isn’t.”

“Isn’t he?” The Dark Lord whispered his amusement licking at Severus’ own Occlumency shields as their eyes met. 

Severus wasn’t sure how to respond. It had never occurred to anyone after what Peter had said that Harry could possibly be the one at risk. Perhaps, Severus thought briefly as he tore his gaze away from Voldemort’s, he should have taken Harry, and then the boy would not be at the cottage if it were ever attacked. He didn’t want to ask again. He didn’t want to risk asking for an explanation, because Voldemort’s patience was already stretched further than Severus had expected. So he tried a different approach. “I hear you are looking for your mate, my Lord.” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Forgive my impudence, but was that not why the bloodstone was sent to the Potters’? Lily mentioned it to me, my Lord, and she also mentioned that it was Harry who cried. Harry, and not Tarrant.” That would give the Dark Lord something to consider, Snape thought feeling pleased with himself. 

“And yet, it was addressed to Tarrant Potter. Why would his parents have given his gift to Harry then, I wonder.”

“Well, I don’t know, my Lord.” Severus looked up from his half-bow, warily. “Perhaps the boy simply took it? But she said it was Harry whom cried. My Lord, what if Harry was your mate? He reacted to the bloodstone, he does more accidental magic than his brother, he talked sooner… and perhaps he is the prophecy child, but the prophecy said _vanquish_ , vanquish, my Lord, and not defeat! Would you not wait, I beg you, and see?” Severus ducked his head again, hiding his hopeful expression beneath the thick curtain of his hair. 

“Wait and see?” The Dark Lord question, sounding astounded. “Whatever do you mean, Snape? Surely, you don’t expect me to allow him to grow into a man and best me before I come to my decision, do you? Of course you don’t.” He snorted again, looking down his thin nose at the man who dipped lower to the ground under his gaze. “Of course you don’t, my friend.” 

He walked away, and left Snape crouched where he was, hands shaking at his sides. Once the Dark Lord was out of sight, Severus turned and in a manner most undignified he ran to the nearest floo. 

“Hogwarts, Headmaster’s office!” He shouted into the green flames, waiting until it swept him away. 

**XXX**


	3. Chapter 03

**Words:** 4,582  
 **Chapter 3**  
October 31st 1981. 

Tarrant was already asleep in the small cot James’ had set up beside his own bed. Lily was putting Harry to bed in the twins’ bedroom, and James was waiting downstairs, glancing warily at every trick-or-treater who stood unsurely at the end of his driveway. They couldn’t see the house, but most of these people had lived here long enough to know that a house should have been there, and yet it wasn’t. 

He could hear Harry gurgling to himself, followed by Lily making soft shushing noises, and James allowed a small grin. Harry was a terrible sleeper; he’d probably lie there for half the night staring up at the ceiling and still be full of energy the morning after. Tarrant on the other hand tended to cry continuously if he happened to wake before he was ready. It was a small mercy that at least Harry stayed silent while refusing to sleep for them at nap time or bedtime. Tarrant’s sleeping pattern had worsened due to his room change. He now shared with his two parents, his father who snored, and his mother who was constantly waking to check on her two children in two separate rooms, as opposed to his silent twin who had never woken Tarrant up. Lily hadn’t wanted to separate them, she didn’t think it was right to split the twins up so soon in life, but it was only going to be for a little while. They could protect Tarrant better if he was with them, and Voldemort wouldn’t go anywhere near Harry if Tarrant wasn’t in the room with him. They could protect one son, and that son’s absence would protect their other son, or so the Potters’ hoped. 

Unfortunately, while Severus had informed Dumbledore about Lord Voldemort’s fixation with Harry, Dumbledore hadn’t been able to contact the Potters. He had found Sirius, angry and afraid, demanding to know why he couldn’t see the cottage anymore, why couldn’t he floo in, why couldn’t he apparate within the wards like he could have before. And Sirius had told him. Sirius told him about Peter, about the rumours Peter had heard, and their plan to keep his family safe. But Sirius couldn’t get through the wards either, nor see through the _Fidelius_ despite the fact that he had cast it. Their letters were returned. No one had seen Peter since the day the wards were transferred to himself, and while before it hadn’t seemed important, now every Order member made it their priority to track down Peter Pettigrew and force him to reveal the Secret. 

So, Lily and James continued unaware of the change in Lord Voldemort’s target. Lily joined her husband on the sofa, both of them peering out of the window at the group of giggling children that ran from house to house and always skipped over their own. Occasionally, James had seen Sirius standing outside, glancing around in frustration and desperation, moving from one house to the other but missing the Potters’ every time. James had never opened the door to his friend, remembering Peter’s gift that Sirius had sent, and Harry’s screams, and Sirius’ betrayal. He thought for a moment that Sirius had come back, because there was a man in a dark cloak walking through Godric’s Hollow, but he was walking away from their cottage, so James turned away from the window and smiled at his wife. 

“Are they sleeping?” He asked softly. 

“Tarrant is,” she whispered with a small smile. “Harry will nod off on his own, when he’s ready.” 

Before James could reply, a whooshing noise swept through the village. It was a noise incomparable to any other, but as an Auror James had heard it enough times to know what it meant. He jumped off of the sofa, darting to the front door and pulled it open. “Oh! Oh my, Merlin!” He shouted, shielding his eyes with the back of one of his hands. 

Lily gasped, standing behind him in the threshold of the door. At the other end of the village a house was on fire. It had started as a small explosion, but the oxygen in the air had fed the flames until they were out of control, wild and burning hot, and in their midst was a centaur and a basilisk, glowing and burning and chasing after each piece of the house they were wrapped around. 

“ _Fiendfyre_!” James looked at his wife. They both looked outside, at the screaming, running Muggles, and the three magical people who had gathered to try and contain the flames. The couple nodded simultaneously, and for the first time in over a year they stepped out of the cottage. They locked the door behind them, completely confident in Sirius and Albus’ _Fidelius Charm_ , unknowing that their Secret Keeper had changed, that he had told, and then they left their children alone to save the lives of people they had never met before. 

Lily’s red hair disappeared from view as Peter stepped out of the shadows. By his side, the same man from earlier in the long dark cloak waited silently. “This is i-it, my Lord,” Peter told him, sweeping into a low bow even as his hands shook. “You w-won’t hurt T-Tarrant, will you, m-my Lord, right?” Peter’s voice shook as he spoke.

Lord Voldemort glanced at him, red eyes merely slits on his face as he narrowed them at his follower. He did not answer the man as he had answered Snape; he did not respect this man as he did Snape. Instead, Voldemort thrust something at Peter, and instinctively Peter reached out to catch it. 

“ _Portus_ ”, Voldemort hissed, watching with glee as Peter panicked but wasn’t quite quick enough to drop the Portkey. The portly man disappeared, transferred back to Voldemort’s current base and out of Voldemort’s way. 

Lord Voldemort moved slowly, confident that the fire would continue to burn for a long time. He didn’t need to fear being obstructed; there was no one to stop him. Dumbledore did not know where this place was, Snape’s precious Mudblood was otherwise detained, and Wormtail was gone, out of sight and out of mind. All that stood between him and ultimate success now was Harry Potter. 

The Dark Lord found the boy alone in the nursery. He was half tempted to search for Tarrant, for his mate, but he fought down that compulsion. The desire to lay eyes on his mate was not as strong as Voldemort expected it to be, and strangely he found it hard to think about leaving this room, the room with Harry in it, because as he lay eyes on _this_ child the world appeared to fall away. 

“What hold do you have on me, boy?” He snarled, shaking his head to clear it. It wasn’t safe to have an enemy with so much control over him. He didn’t know how Harry was doing it (he had never encountered his mate before, after all, so he couldn’t have been expected to know what exactly was happening), but he didn’t like how vulnerable it made him feel. “What kind of magic is this?” 

Harry didn’t answer him, except to stare up at him still wide awake and clench his pudgy fingers towards the Dark Lord. He was asking to be picked up, but Voldemort merely continued to stare down at him, his wand hanging limply in one hand. 

“It has to be done,” the man whispered to the child. “There is no getting around it, boy. I will not allow you to grow up and defeat me. It is kinder to you, and your family, if I end your life now rather than prolong it to simply watch you suffer. I am being merciful,” he said as he pointed the wand at Harry’s face, “and Lord Voldemort is a merciful Lord. _Avada Kedavra_!” 

The green light shot towards the baby. Beneath Harry’s pillow, the bloodstone began to glow red again, its light surrounding Harry for about a second, just enough to force the Killing Curse to rebound. It reminded Voldemort of a Priori Incantatem he had seen once, as the spells from two wands met in the middle as the married couple he had _Imperiused_ to kill each other for his entertainment attacked. The green and red light met, and Voldemort didn’t even consider the fact that it was Harry who had somehow managed to steal back the bloodstone (probably with the help of his twin who could actually walk), but rather _why_ Harry had wanted the bloodstone meant for Lord Voldemort’s mate. And then the green light hit him.

It tore through him, and Voldemort screamed as he had never screamed before. Harry’s cries echoed along with his own, a strange chorus of cries and wails, music to the ears of some, but Harry had his hands clamped over his own ears as he sniffled, his eyes wide and on the man who was disintegrating even as he tried to flee the room. Bones, flesh, muscle, and even his clothing turned to dust. The wand was also a Portkey and with his last breath, Lord Voldemort bid it to return to his home where it would be safe until he rose once more to claim it.

Then he was gone. Nothing but his fractured soul remained, and it glanced briefly at the boy-child whose soul called out to him, and then at the doorway where he thought he remembered another child would be found. He wanted this once, he thought, even though his memories – jumbled and fragmented as they were by death – insisted that he wanted the other child, but in the end the Dark Lord fled, escaping out of the window as something less than a spirit, less than a ghost, defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived. 

_XXX_

November 3rd 1981. 

A lot of houses in Godric’s Hollow had been damaged by the _Fiendfyre_ , with the exception of those closest to the Potters’ hidden cottage. Strangely enough, the inside of the nursery was charred and one wall was crumbling, there was a pile of ashes on the floor and Harry had been screaming for all he was worth with a strange looking cut on his forehead, but those were the only evidences that disaster had touched the house which had suddenly become visible to everyone. The Secret had broken, the wards had fallen, and Dumbledore could only think of one reason why the spell would have failed. 

“Peter had Lord Voldemort recast the wards himself, Sirius,” the old man nodded at the distraught Black, “and with Voldemort’s defeat the spell has fallen. Though,” he added merrily, waiting outside of St Mungos for their friends, “it’s just as well don’t you think? Now they can go home.”

Sirius and Remus shared glances, unsure whether they should be happy or not. Voldemort had found their friends’ home, their other friend had betrayed them, and Harry was in the Spell-Damage Ward of the hospital. But Voldemort was gone now, and Harry was about to come home, and that was happy news, wasn’t it? Even though they had lost a friend, their family had remained safe. Sirius glanced at Remus, and Remus merely smiled back, both thinking the same thing, both looking forward to the future. 

“Of course not all of the Death Eaters have been arrested. Some fled and some are insisting they were coerced to follow the Dark Lord; the trials will be starting in the new year. No one has been able to find Peter so far. But I did hear that there is going to be a party at Hogwarts this coming weekend to celebrate the return of our much loved Muggle Studies professor!” The three of them shared soft chuckles, thinking about Lily’s reaction to a party being thrown in her honour, how she would blush and tsk at them and roll her eyes, but welcome every moment of it as a chance to be happy. 

They were saved from further discussion when the doors to St Mungos swung open. The Potters’ stood there, James holding Tarrant and Lily holding Harry, who wiggled excitedly as they noticed the large group of people who had gathered outside to welcome the Saviour home. 

“Give, give,” Harry exclaimed, reaching out for the closest person, demanding a hug with fat, clenching fingers. 

Dumbledore swiped him out of his mothers’ arms, glancing worriedly at the faint red patch on his forehead before greeting him loudly and happily. 

“It will fade,” Lily whispered. “The Healer said the scar will fade. They don’t know what happened, but Harry is perfectly fine.”

Dumbledore could guess what had happened. The Death Eaters weren’t the only one who had heard the rumours of Lord Voldemort searching for his mate. Albus had been the one to search the cottage, along with a team of Aurors, and he had been the one to pack some of the Potters’ belongings so that they wouldn’t have to leave Harry at the hospital to come home. He had found the bloodstone, tucked under Harry’s baby-sized pillow, black and cold but it tasted of magic, blood magic to be exact and Harry had cried the first time he had touched it. Against his better judgement, Dumbledore had pocketed the stone instead of destroying it, and he had wondered briefly if Voldemort had been fixated on Harry for a reason other than killing him. 

He held his tongue though, determined to wait until they were in private, and he watched with fond amusement as Harry was handed around the group of well-wishers, enjoying all of the attention the baby should have gotten when he was born and on his birthday (instead of being hidden away for his own safety). Tarrant slept soundly in his father’s arms, but the fear of waking him wasn’t the reason why he was ignored. With Harry their Saviour there, the majority of those gathered had completely forgotten that Tarrant existed. 

“How is he?” Sirius whispered, glancing at the twin. 

“He does not like the hospital. I think this is the first time Tarrant has slept since we brought Harry here.” James gave a deep sigh, and Sirius finally noticed the dark bags under his eyes. 

“Mate, how about Remus and I babysit tonight, and you guys go and get a long sleep.” James opened his mouth to protest, but since Potter Manor was Sirius’ home too they couldn’t really stop him if he wanted to take care of the twins. “No hanky panky mind you, I didn’t sign up to brat-watch while you get your freak on.”

James blushed, and said, “Just sleep. Merlin knows I need it.” 

“Thank you,” Lily whispered, joining them and catching the end of their conversation. Harry was safely back in her arms, and after wishing goodbye to their enamoured crowd, the Potters’, Remus, Sirius and Albus Dumbledore made their way to the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. From there, they flooed to Potter Manor. Stepping out of the fireplace, Lily turned to her husband and whispered, “Welcome home.”

Later, once the children were sleeping in the nursery that was only half finished and had remained that way for over a year, the adults met in James’ study. 

“Why do you think You-Know-Who will be back?” James breathed his cheeks pale. 

“Honestly, his name is Voldemort. Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself.” Lily scowled at them as they flinched, all but Dumbledore who smiled serenely back at her. 

“That is something I cannot disclose until I have gathered more proof. You, my boy, are well aware of the fickleness of the Ministry. It would not do to start shouting accusations without proof.” James appeared to agree because he fell silent. They talked for a while more, and Dumbledore desperately wanted to go upstairs and check on Harry’s scar, but the boy was sleeping. He couldn’t ask and give no reason why, and so he chose to remain silent rather than disclose his secret, or rather Voldemort’s secret. Or, rather, one of them. So instead, he chose to disclose the other. 

“Voldemort is part-creature?” Lily gasped. She would never have expected something like that. It was true that many Purebloods mixed with the nobler breeds of magical creatures, but to think that Voldemort who had been Muggle raised and practically Muggleborn for all of the magic his mother could actually perform could have been so lucky, so fortunate, as to be a Faerie was mind-boggling. “And you are sure?”

“I have never been surer of anything in my life, dear girl.” He fell silent, waiting for the question that he knew was coming. 

“What does this have to do with Harry?” Sirius asked, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling. 

“I suggest, my friends, that you keep a close eye on young Harry as he grows. If anything suspicious should happen do inform me, won’t you?” Albus said, instead of answering their questions. He took his leave soon after, pausing at the bottom of the stairs debating with himself whether to just go up to Harry without his parents’ knowing or whether to wait. In the end, he stepped into the fireplace, his fingers clenching around the bloodstone within his pocket and he let himself be swept away by the flames. Lily had said the scar would fade. Albus would wait, and see, and if the scar had faded then all would be well. He would only have to worry about the safety of Tarrant’s soul then, instead of them both. 

_XXX_

December 1st 1981. 

It was this day that Lily and James received a letter from Gringotts, informing them that a vault had been set up in Harry’s name. Apparently, people were anonymously depositing money to their accounts with instructions that the donation be given to Harry Potter who had saved them all. James had fire called the Goblins, who had insisted that nothing could be done now; the money was legally Harry’s, to use as Harry wished, and the number of donations were only increasing, not decreasing as time went by. 

“Maybe he could use it as his school vault? He and Tarrant could share, and use the money for treats and Hogsmeade trips? We’d pay for all of their supplies of course,” Lily mused. 

James pulled his head out of the fireplace and simply shrugged. “Doesn’t seem fair though. I know Harry wouldn’t mind sharing with his brother, but still, it’s Harry’s money. Tarrant isn’t getting anything.”

“But Tarrant didn’t do anything,” Lily told him as if that explained everything. 

“And we don’t know what Harry did either. For all we know, You-Know-Who might have brought a follower who turned on him and spared Harry! It just… it doesn’t seem fair.”

“What do you want to do about it?” She whispered, looking sadly over at the two toddlers who were playing tug-of-war with a stuffed toy Remus had bought last year for Tarrant. 

Tarrant narrowed his eyes, “m-m-m,” he tried to say, unsuccessfully. Instead, he pulled himself to his feet, and because Harry couldn’t stand the toy slipped from his grip and Tarrant walked away with it. Harry watched him, appearing unconcerned the way that babies usually do if you take a toy from them, because he had many more to choose from. Harry picked up something else and happily began slapping it against the ground, shouting jibberish at it and laughing. Lily watched with a smile, before moving to follow Tarrant who had toddled out of the room. 

Once she was gone, the fireplace sprang to life, and James jumped back in shock. “Merlin Albus! I nearly had a heart attack!”

“Hello James,” Albus said as he stepped out of the fireplace. “I brought something that belongs to you back, though I do think you should consider giving it to Harry sooner rather than later, or at least letting him sleep under it. It would hide him should any wayward Death Eater come looking.” Dumbledore pulled out a silvery cloak from his pocket. It was folded up tightly, but as he shook it out the cloak appeared to glitter and sparkle, shining in the sunlight and the patches of colour that covered it brightened in the light. 

“My invisibility cloak!” James exclaimed, reaching out for it. “Are you finished with it then, sir?”

“Yes, my boy, I think I’ve found what I was looking to find.” Albus watched, blank faced, as James approached Harry and handed down the invisibility cloak. He tucked it around Harry’s shoulders and tight around his torso and Harry gave a shriek of delight as his lower body disappeared from sight. 

“I suppose it would make a decent enough blanket, huh?” James said with a chuckle, running his hand through his messy dark hair. “I guess it does belong to him as well.”

“As your heir, yes, and as your son.” Dumbledore wanted to reach out and brush Harry’s hair from his forehead, but he didn’t. At the same time he wanted to take back the Deathly Hallow he had just parted with, but he didn’t. It wasn’t his to take, and he would not add ‘thief’ to the long list of his negative attributes. 

“About that,” James said with a sigh, before he launched into a retelling of what the Goblin’s had just told him.

“Severus’ mother was from an old pureblooded line, while she may not have left him much in the way of an inheritance her name was worth her weight in gold. Sirius, likewise, has made Harry his heir. Yet, Remus and Peter are both half-bloods, with little known names and little money. It doesn’t seem fair that Harry will inherit so much and Tarrant so little, does it?” Albus said, hoping against hope that James would pick up on his unspoken suggestion. Anything that he could do, anything at all, which would tie Tarrant closer to his family and keep him from the Dark would be worth it in the long run. 

“Oh!” James exclaimed. “What if we make Tarrant the Potter Heir? Harry can still be Snape’s and Sirius’ heir, and he’s still our firstborn son, but what if Tarrant inherits the money? That makes things fairer, right?” He looked so excited, bouncing in place with flushed cheeks. “I gotta go tell Lily! Watch Harry for me will you, Albus?”

Dumbledore wasn’t given the chance to answer before James had rushed off in search of his wife. The old man knelt down in front of the small child. Harry glanced up at him, a wide smile, full of gums and tongue, greeted him. He reached out, long wrinkled fingers pushing back the small fringe of baby hair, and Albus gasped softly. The scar was all but gone. There was no more redness, but Dumbledore recognized the signs of magically accelerated healing. Lily must have asked Severus for a Potion of some sort, he thought, because the Healers hadn’t healed it completely, just the cut. And babies didn’t heal this fast on their own, no one did, not without magic. But whatever was healing it, Albus didn’t care, as long as it healed. The pressure that had been pushing down on his heart since he had heard of Lord Voldemort’s attack lifted. He sighed in relief, giving a soft chuckle at his foolish thoughts. Of course Voldemort wouldn’t use his enemy as a receptacle for his soul. And no one would be cruel enough to turn their mate into a Horcrux either.1 

But that just brought another issue to his mind. 

“Did you open this?” He asked Harry, fishing the bloodstone out of his pocket. 

“Give, Give, Accio,” the child called to him, clenching his fingers again in the universal child sign for ‘give that to me before I cry’. 

Dumbledore handed the stone over silently. Harry pushed it down under the invisibility cloak, hiding it from both of their sights, and then he held his hand out again, waiting for something else. Dumbledore reached out for the hand, fingers closing softly around Harry’s and the boy attempted to pull but Albus pulled back and Harry slid forward, using Dumbledore’s robes to steady himself as he awkwardly lumbered to his feet for the first time. 

“What a clever boy,” the old man praised softly. He reached down for the stone and handed it back to Harry, but they left the cloak pooled on the ground. Harry pointed at the door, at the stairs that you could see just beyond the threshold, and Albus knew then what Harry had wanted from him. He carried Harry up the stairs, since the boy still couldn’t walk and certainly not up the stairs. Once inside of the nursery, Dumbledore put Harry into his cot, where the child was quick to shove the bloodstone under his pillow. 

“Mine,” he said softly, nodding his head as if to reinforce the statement, and then held his arms up again. 

Albus gathered him into his arms, though his eyes remained on the pillow that hid the bloodstone. Did Harry even know what it meant? To hoard a Dark item, something created by the Dark Lord himself? Did Harry even understand? Albus thought back to the cottage at Godric’s Hollow, where for one moment he had entertained the thought that Voldemort had come to kidnap his mate and not kill him. But then he remembered the blackened nursery, the crumbling wall and Voldemort’s ashes. No, Voldemort had intended to kill, but why would he wish to kill the mate he had been searching for for years?

It was something that Albus couldn’t answer. He thought it hovered just at the edge of his senses, but as he grasped for it the idea slipped away, disappearing within his mind. He promised himself a trip into his Pensieve, just as Harry spoke to him. 

“Tarnt, Tarnt, go, go,” the child demanded, pulling none-too-gently on Albus’ beard. 

“Tarrant?” Albus questioned as he made his way from this nursery. But of course, he thought, as the answer to his mental musings struck him like lightening. Harry had reacted to the bloodstone, but Voldemort had tried to kill him regardless. The bloodstone had been wrapped and addressed to Tarrant. Lord Voldemort had attempted to kill his mate and the bloodstone had protected Harry, and Voldemort didn’t know. He had no idea. 

Dumbledore smiled, amused and saddened in equal parts. Voldemort would find out eventually and he would probably never be able to understand the feelings that would accompany the notion that he had almost killed his mate. But Harry would be safe at least. While he felt for poor Tom, who he had tried to save despite Tom’s own thoughts to the contrary, Harry was his priority this generation. 

“Well, my boy, that’s you taken care of. Any suggestions on how to protect your brother?” Harry just looked up at Dumbledore, head tilted to one side with his eyebrows furrowed, before something else drew his attention. 

The fireplace came to life, and Sirius practically tumbled into the room. He was kneeling on the floor, coughing up green floo power and trying to speak through his heaves. “They found him. We found him.”

“What?” James asked, as he stood from the sofa to comfort his friend. Lily still held Tarrant, and she watched them all with wide, terrified eyes, perhaps fearing as James did that Voldemort had returned already. “Who?”

“Peter!” Sirius shouted. “They’ve found Peter!”

**XXX**


	4. Chapter 04

**Words:** 5,992  
 **Chapter 4**  
December 1st 1981. 

There was no stopping Lily and James as they rushed towards the fireplace. They crowded in together, glancing once at each other before calling “Ministry for Magic” and let the flames that had brought Sirius to them bring them away. They were both desperate to know why Peter had betrayed them, why he had almost cost them the life of their eldest son. 

Sirius glanced at Albus and then down at the two toddlers abandoned on the floor. “Do you want to go or shall I?” Sirius asked. He was dressed in his usual work uniform, purple double breasted robes that flared around the waist and split down the middle to show his black trousers. Depending on what level of the Ministry they worked on, the robes were different colours. The Unspeakables wore black, the Aurors wore royal purple and the Wizengamot when they were sitting wore plum. 

“You go ahead, my boy. I’ll mind these two. You have work to do, don’t you? And I can wait for the news.” Sirius nodded once, before turning away from Albus and the twins. He stepped into the fireplace, and with another dash of floo powder he disappeared into the flames. “Well, boys, what shall I do with you both?” Albus asked, leaning down to lift Harry onto his lap. Tarrant reached his arms up, and Albus leant forward careful not to tip Harry back onto the floor and pulled the younger boy towards him. Tarrant didn’t want to get onto his lap, but he happily stood beside Albus’s knees as the man remained on the sofa, reading them _The Tales of Beadle the Bard_ until Lily and James came back. 

_XXX_

January 3rd 1982. 

The first Death Eater trial was about to start. Lily had decided to skip them. Albus had promised to vouch for Severus, and Lily would as well when his trial date came upon them, and Peter had been found horrible tortured and half mad and had been exonerated for his part in Harry’s near demise. None of the others mattered much to her, none of them affected her family, and so while Sirius and James did their jobs and Remus took care of Peter who was living with them now in Potter Manor (one big happy family) Lily packed up the twins and did something she had been meaning to do for almost two years. 

The grave site was tiny. It was the size of Harry or Tarrant, which made sense since it was the grave of Neville Longbottom. He had been only six months old when Voldemort had hunted him down. Lily had never managed to set aside the guilt she had felt and the relief when Voldemort targeted them instead of her children. The Longbottoms were her friends, and members of the Order of the Phoenix and she had contemplated asking Alice to be Harry’s godmother for a while. She hadn’t though, because James had asked Peter to be Tarrant’s godfather and in return Lily had asked Severus, who was her friend even if James didn’t like him. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She wanted to reach out and brush her fingers over her lips and then across the top of the stone, but she couldn’t without putting down one of the twins. She was carrying them, because pushing a stroller through a cemetery full of grass wasn’t practical and she didn’t believe in having house elves float her children around behind her. The small oval portrait of Neville giggled, his face crinkling up and his cheeks reddening. It was such a close up that Lily couldn’t make out the colour of his hair, and she hadn’t ever met him so she supposed she’d never know. 

“Baby,” Harry said softly, wriggling in his mother’s arms. 

“Neville,” Lily told him. With another wiggle, Harry managed to convince Lily to put him down. He stood shakily in front of the gravestone; pudgy hands outstretched just enough so that the tips of his fingers could trace the words that were written there. “He was loved and he was lost. He will be avenged.” Lily whispered, before using her free hand to blow a kiss at Neville’s photo. Harry copied her, and Tarrant made a noise of protest when Lily made to put him down as well and so she held him tighter and stood in silence. They spent ten more minutes standing by the child’s grave, Lily feeling guilty and pitying his parents, and the twins feeling no more than general curiosity, before she gathered Harry up and made her way back to the apparition point. 

In the time she had been gone, two men had been sentenced to Azkaban. But it wasn’t Peter, James’ friend, and it wasn’t Severus, her friend, so she didn’t worry about them. 

_XXX_

She returned home in time to find Albus sitting comfortably in her living room. Peter was nowhere in sight, but Remus was just about to pour some tea. She left the children down, waved her wand over them to remove any lingering grass or mud and then let them toddle shakily in whichever direction suited them. They couldn’t get up the stairs and they couldn’t get outside. Everywhere else was safe. 

“Hello, sir,” she greeted warmly, taking a seat beside him on the couch. 

Silently, he handed over a newspaper. It was dated for the following morning, January 4th, and Lily read over it curiously before gasping in shock. Remus had already read it, and he looked at her sympathetically before pouring her a cup of tea too. 

“A monument?” She asked her old Headmaster. 

Her friend looked back at her and nodded. “To honour their Saviour and the parents that sired him. I do suppose they couldn’t have just a statue of young Harry on his own now could they? A baby languishing in a crib isn’t very heroic looking nor awe inspiring, but a child grinning at them from his parents’ arms with a battle scar on his forehead? Now, that says something.” 

“He doesn’t even have the scar anymore!” Lily shouted. It was true of course. A couple of months after the attack Harry’s scar had faded completely, well unless you looked very closely under the right light in which case there was the tiniest of white marks on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. “They didn’t put Tarrant in it?”

“The sculptor thought it might be unfair to any future children you and James have to include the Saviour’s twin and not leave room for them to be added.” Dumbledore gave a soft sigh. He ran his fingers over his beard, untangling parts of it that had become knotted. “I thought you should know before they unveil it tomorrow. It’s in Godric’s Hollow. The Ministry has also declared the old cottage to be a, well, I would have gone with tourist attraction, but they claim they are leaving it in its damaged state in a sign of respect for Harry’s bravery.”

“He just lay there. He’s a baby! How was he brave, or heroic, or anything else these people are talking about? They act like he’s going to save them all and they don’t even know about the prophecy. Albus, it isn’t fair!” Lily turned, glancing at the back of the room where Harry had managed to pull himself onto a side table and was reaching up the bookshelf for something. She walked over and pulled him off of the table before handing him _the Tales of Beadle the Bard_. “It isn’t fair on him.”

“Nor on Tarrant, I know, Lily. But that is why we must try as hard as we can to give them both happy, normal, _equal_ childhoods.” Albus glanced at the future mate of the Dark Lord, the smiley trusting Saviour of the Wizarding World, the prophecy child who was supposed to somehow defeat Voldemort without killing him, because no one would condone one mate turning on another no matter who they were. But vanquish, Dumbledore thought, that was a different matter. Vanquish, he could work with. “You have to take special care to treat them both the same, because the world won’t you realise.”

He couldn’t let the Potters’ give Tarrant any reason to join the Dark Lord. The boy had to stay firmly with his family, loved just as wholly as his twin was. Voldemort couldn’t be allowed to lure the wrong boy away from the Light, to tempt him and tarnish him and then discard him when he realized he had picked the wrong twin. That wasn’t fair and that wasn’t right, and Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it if he could help it. 

“I’ll leave the paper here for you to show James and Sirius when they return.”

Lily frowned, glancing away from Harry and back to the paper. “When is Severus’ trial?” 

She hadn’t seen Severus since before she had gone into hiding. Severus was under house arrest at Hogwarts, where he had been staying ever since he had fire called Dumbledore with the news that Harry was the real target and not Tarrant. He would be taking up the post of Potions professor once he was cleared of charges, and he would be Lily knew because Dumbledore was on his side and so was she and so was Harry. Their Saviour needed his godfather, and Lily had missed her friend something terrible since their fight in fifth year. No matter that they had made up and she had begged him to be Harry’s godfather and her Severus Snape again, it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same between them until Severus was a free man once more, just like when they were kids, as if none of this had happened. That was naive of her. But she kept the thought anyway. 

_XXX_

February 12th 1982. 

Since Valentine’s day was a Sunday this year, which was a notoriously bad day for any sort of celebration since everyone who was willing to babysit had to work the next morning, except Remus who had a date of his own, James had decided to take Lily out on the Friday night instead. Severus, who had been cleared of all charges but ordered to remain at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future, had volunteered himself as the twins’ babysitter. 

Peter had moved out once the trials were over. Severus thought with a sneer that the man had probably been hiding at the Potters’ home because no one would have dared arrest him there. He was living somewhere in the Muggle countryside now, and Remus was living in Black’s old home in London renovating it apparently, and Sirius was still living with the Potters’ as the live in godparent. Severus wondered if that offer would ever extend to him, though he still had his home on Spinner’s End in Cokeworth not that he cared for it much, but it was a better place to live now that his father was dead. An invitation would be nice, unlikely but nice nonetheless. 

“So,” Severus drawled, pulling his robes closed as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What to do with you?” He had spent time with Draco Malfoy, his other godson whose father was fortunate enough to avoid Azkaban for all that he was lying about being under the _Imperious_ , but he didn’t really know what to do with children. He cared about these children because they were Lily’s, and for Harry specifically because it was him that Lily had begged him to love and protect and cherish. But he still had no idea what he was meant to do with them. 

Tarrant and Harry both sat on the ground, eighteen months old, and grinning widely up at the dark haired man who looked as lost as he felt. “Book,” Harry told him, “read to us.” 

“Book, book, book,” Tarrant repeated even as Severus moved silently towards the bookshelf. He could run and jump and skip and float above the ground on a toy broom but his speech was terrible. Lily wasn’t worried about it though, Harry had been slow to walk but he had gotten there, and so Tarrant would learn to talk eventually as well. 

Severus browsed the bookcase, looking for anything that might interest a child. They were all adult books with the exception of Beadles fairy tale book, and a handful of very childish learn to read books on the bottom shelf that he refused to lower himself to read. 

“They don’t care what you read as long as you move your finger under each of the words as you do. Harry will follow you and try to repeat the words. Tarrant likes to listen to the sound of peoples’ voices.” 

Severus whirled around, his wand in his hand and pointed at the man who had stepped out of the fireplace. “Pettigrew!” He hissed. Severus couldn’t prove that the man had been a real Death Eater, and not forced to serve the Dark Lord through violence, and James and Lily wouldn’t hear another word about his betraying them even though Lily still didn’t like Peter, but that didn’t mean that Severus didn’t _know_ , like Remus knew, that Peter wasn’t to be trusted. But they weren’t his children, and he couldn’t protect them from a godparent. “What do you want?”

“I figured you could use some help. You don’t seem the babysitting type.”

“He is my godson.” Severus offered as an explanation. 

“And Tarrant is mine,” Peter agreed with a chuckle. “Doesn’t mean you know what to do with them. Don’t think Lily would be too happy if you managed to kill one of her precious children.” 

“Is that a threat?” Severus hissed, slowly inching his way back to the sofa to where he had left the boys. His wand was still in his hand, but Peter only laughed and breezed past him to the bookshelf. He grabbed a blue book and took it back with him to the sofa, pulling Tarrant up onto his lap. 

He started to read, running his fingers under the words as he spoke and ignoring the way Harry, who was standing at his knees, would try and repeat certain words out loud. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversation in it, ‘and what is the use of a book’, thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversation?’1” Peter stopped reading after the first paragraph and glanced up at Severus with a smile that was supposed to be shy and hopeful but instead made Snape’s stomach twist. “Will you not join us Sev? We can read the paragraphs in turns.” 

Severus sat down, but he didn’t attempt to read. Instead, he kept a close eye on Harry and on Peter and the wand that poked out of his pocket but was never used. “So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.”1 Peter continued with the story, his finger still pointing at each individual work. 

“R-rabbit,” Harry attempted, pointing at the illustration of the White Rabbit in his vest and tie holding up a gold pocket watch. 

“Well done, Harry,” Peter praised. 

As much as Severus didn’t like him, and certainly didn’t trust him, the Potions Master had to admit the man was good with children. The children seemed to like him at least, which considering the circumstances probably wasn’t a good thing. 

_XXX_

February 14th 1982. 

Everyone who had given their excuses earlier that week, using work or a date or illness to get out of minding the Potter twins had lied. Apparently, the Order had been planning a Valentine’s party and had been hoping to convince the Potters’ to keep their Sunday night free without actually having to come straight out and ruin the surprise. Remus’ date wasn’t a lie, but he had invited her along to Grimmauld Place where the _Fidelius Charm_ had been taken down and Remus had spent months renovating. 

Lily spoke with Alice for most of the night, feeling terribly guilty once more because her twins were tucked up asleep in Sirius’ old bedroom, and Alice’s was tucked up in the ground. But she couldn’t bring herself to walk away and leave the woman standing alone in the corner with Frank who kept staring straight ahead without seeing anyone else. He only spoke when spoken to, and he didn’t seem to really acknowledge the person speaking, but the mind healers had said that would fade with time and magic. He had come out of it better than expected anyway, considering the amount of time Bellatrix Lestrange had held him under the _Cruciatus_ for. 

“Lily,” Peter called, waving her across the room. 

She excused herself, feeling bad for leaving Alice and Frank, and then feeling frantic as she saw the small bundle in Peter’s arms. “What happened, what’s wrong?” She asked him, drawing in deep breathes to calm herself as Harry began to stir. For a moment, she had feared the worst. Why, she didn’t know, because they were surrounded by friends, and Peter was her friend. 

“Found him curled up in the kitchen with that house elf. He was awake. He fell asleep easily for me but I thought you might want to know anyway.” Peter told her, handing the sleeping child over easily. 

“How did he get into the kitchen?” Lily asked, even as she moved towards the stairs. Peter followed her. 

“Oh I saw him crying at the top of the stairs earlier and brought him down for a bit. I told the elf to put him back to bed but apparently that meant he could sleep on the floor. I checked upstairs and he wasn’t there so I checked the kitchen again. Didn’t want to worry you over nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing? Peter you kept my son out of bed without my permission, brought him downstairs, fed him who knows what, and then left him with the crazy Black elf unsupervised? That’s not nothing. What were you thinking? What if there had been a fire? I would have gone upstairs for Harry and he would have been all alone in the kitchen! What were you thinking!” Peter shrank back at Lily’s words, flushing a horrible shade of red in embarrassment. He looked around the room for help, but Sirius and James were standing side by side looking angry and flustered, Remus looked so very disappointed and everyone else was staring at him in disbelief except Severus who was glaring at him through narrowed, distrustful eyes. 

“I’m sorry!” Peter said after a moment, but Lily had already left the room with Harry. 

Kreacher popped into the room, glancing around angrily at all of the people who would never usually be invited into a House of Black, and scowled at Pettigrew. 

“You is lying,” he hissed. “Bad man, bad master’s friend. Horrible blood traitor. Leaving little master alone. Kreacher is ashamed of you, he is, not liking you at all.” Kreacher, who had never been fond of anyone really but Regulus and Walburga Black, had found Peter lying Harry on the kitchen floor still sleeping and left the boy there. Kreacher hadn’t been sure what to do with the child, because he hadn’t been given orders and he wasn’t the child’s nanny-elf, but he pulled off his own tattered uniform and tucked it around Harry to keep the chill from the floor away. 

He had found Harry once, walking unsteadily into Regulus’ old room on one of the days that Remus had been babysitting him. Kreacher had stood in the middle of the room, with a locket clenched in his hands, watching wide eyes as the child grinned and held out his hands. “ **Mine, mine, like the stone, so mine now** ”, the boy had hissed quietly at him, holding out his hand for the Horcrux that Kreacher had immediately apparated away with. Remus had comforted the child, and Kreacher had told no one that Harry Potter could speak Parseltongue. But he could, and that made him a worthy master to serve as far as Kreacher was concerned. 

Peter trailed glumly out of the room once Kreacher had disappeared back into the kitchen. Alice turned, looking horrified, and whispered to Molly Weasley, “what was he thinking? Just taking that child like that?”

“What if something had happened? No one would ever have known!” Molly whispered back. Her own brood were at home under the care of her eldest sons Bill and Charlie, with the exception of Ginerva who was only a few months old and had accompanied her mother to the party. 

“Leaving him with that crazy elf?” Sirius hissed, looking furious, “Kreacher could have done anything to him!” 

“Well,” Severus whispered sounding rather smug, though he was on his way to find Lily and find out if Harry was ok at the same time, “I did suggest he not be invited tonight. But apparently, my opinion wasn’t warranted. And look how well that turned out, Potter, eh?”

“Shut up, Snivellus,” James sneered, narrowing his eyes. Without Lily around it was just like their Hogwarts days again, but Severus just snorted in amusement and slipped out of the room. 

But first, he got one more dig out and then left before James could reply. “I warned Albus of the Dark Lord’s true target. Pettigrew convinced Black to change secret keepers. I would have succeeded in saving that boy’s life if not for Pettigrew. He’s only tried to kill the boy.”

 _XXX_

July 31st 1984. 

It was the twins’ fourth birthday. It would be their first real party, because the family was in hiding when the boys turned one, and they were too young to really care about anything other than cake and presents at home when they turned two and three. But now, they had friends and demands, and Lily and James had no choice but to open their homes to all of the families of those with children of similar age. It wasn’t polite to invite some and not others. 

So the Weasleys were there, with four-year-old Ronald and three-year-old Ginerva. Xenophilius and his wife had attended with their young daughter, Luna Lovegood. The Browns were there, and the Patils, the Abbots, a few people and their children that James recognized from school but didn’t really remember, some of Lily’s Hogwarts associates had attended childless. And then there were the other families, the ones that they would have preferred not to invite but couldn’t without offending them all mortally. The Malfoys, Notts, Parkinsons and Bulstrodes: all Death Eater families all of whom had gotten away scot free or with very light menial sentences. Their children would be in the same year at Hogwarts as the Potters’ own. 

In fact, a four-year-old Draco Malfoy had just managed to corner their eldest son. Both sets of parents watched as Draco talked, slow and carefully, to Harry, ignoring Tarrant who stood at his side in silence. They watched as Harry pushed him, shoving the blond backwards to land on his bum. “I’m not talking to you unless you talk to my brother too!” They heard Harry shout, with his hands on his hips and tapping one foot angrily on the floor. Lily had perfected that look years ago, and Harry had copied it from her with much enthusiasm, using it every time someone disagreed with him. The terrible twos for the twins hadn’t actually hit until a few months before this birthday and it was still going on. 

“But he’s not special!” Draco protested, rubbing at wet eyes with the back of his hands. 

“Yes he is!” Harry shouted again. “I’ll hit you if you say he’s not.” 

Lily was by his side in seconds, even as Narcissa Malfoy bent down to scoop up her son. 

“We don’t hit Harry. You know that, now, apologise and mean it, young man or you’ll go straight to your room once everyone has gone. And I mean that. No cake, no presents, no Tarrant.” They were in separate bedrooms now, but Harry usually lay beside his brother while Tarrant slept and Harry stared at the ceiling until he felt tired enough to sleep, and then he headed to his own bedroom. He was still a terrible sleeper. 

“I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t have said that, it wasn’t nice. But I shouldn’t have pushed you, and I wouldn’t have hit you, honest!” Harry grinned at him, one tooth missing already, as he pushed up the thin wired glasses that were sliding down his nose. He held out his hand. Draco stared at it, sniffing delicately the way his mother sometimes did, before he reached out for the hand, fingertips barely touching. 

“Accepted.” Draco said, looking down his nose at Harry before he pulled his hand back to wipe down his robes. 

“That’s not how you shake hands!” Harry told him with another grin, grabbing Draco’s hand before he could protest and enthusiastically pumping it up and down. 

“That’s barbaric!” The little blond exclaimed, looking over at his father for help. 

Lucius watched his son with an eyebrow raised. It would have been rude not to attend the party, and it would have been offensive not to have been invited, and he wasn’t sure which would have been worse. He and Arthur Weasley had almost come to blows earlier and now they stood in separate corners of the dining room, glaring futilely at one another when the other wasn’t looking. Harry Potter was mauling his son’s hand, and the other boy seemed to have disappeared from the room during Harry and Draco’s fight. 

He knew, as a handful other Death Eaters did, that Lord Voldemort’s mate was among them. He was one of those boys, one of the Potters. But Lucius did not think it was Tarrant. While the boy was inherently darker, quieter, subtler, accordingly more like a Slytherin than his brother, Lucius knew that didn’t mean anything. Pettigrew was a Gryffindor after all. Harry was stronger. Harry was the prophecy child. Harry, unlike his brother, might have a hope of keeping the elusive Dark Lord interested for more than the time the bonding would take. Tarrant Potter was too quiet, too easily ignored. He would make a good spy, Lucius conceded, but a terrible consort. Lord Voldemort would be bored of him within days. 

Harry, on the other hand, seemed to be a very interesting person so far. 

“And if you were a girl, I’d have to greet you like this,” Harry said. Lucius looked up, pulling himself from his musing in time to see Harry dodge forward and kiss his son firmly on the cheek. “I only have to kiss you on the hand when you’re older! And if I was French I have to kiss both cheeks, but I don’t think you have to kiss both hands.” 

“My family is French, does that count?” Draco asked, even as he wiped his chin free of Harry’s saliva. 

“Should I kiss you twice?” Harry asked, his eyebrows furrowed. At his side, Lily laughed lightly, running her fingers through his short brown hair. 

“No!” Draco shrieked. “I’m not a girl!”

“But you’re French!” Harry insisted, placing his hands back on his hips. 

Lily recognized the signs of another tantrum, and grabbed Harry tightly around the waist. She picked him up, tucking him against her with his legs around her waist. “Say goodbye, and go talk to your other guests.” 

“But they keep giggling,” Harry glanced angrily in the direction of a group of young girls, before glancing at the two red headed children, “and they only want to see if I have a scar.”

“What about Luna?” Lily nodded towards the small blond girl who was sitting by herself in the corner of the room. She had found the Beadle fairy tale book, and was leafing through the pages looking at the illustrations. 

“Hmm,” Harry hummed in agreement, wiggling to be placed on the floor again. He held his hand out to Draco again, who took it in another delicate handshake, and then went in separate directions. Draco went back to his parents, and Harry went to pester the girl with pigtails and a strange feathered headdress. 

Tarrant watched from the doorway as his mother fussed over his brother and everyone’s attention focused on Harry and that little blond boy. No one seemed to notice he was gone except Remus who appeared at his side silently with the blue-bound copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ clutched in his hand. 

“Shall we continue where we left off?” Remus asked, as he and Tarrant moved into the kitchen. The werewolf pulled out a seat for Tarrant first, and helped the boy scramble into it, before taking his own seat. He nodded at one of the house elves, and she hurried over with two plates of cake and two glasses of milk and set them down between the two Wizards. 

Remus cleared his throat, opening the book at the dog-eared page they had finished up on last time, and continued to read. “The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: ‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice coming. ‘There's PLENTY of room!’ said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. ‘Have some wine,’ the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. ‘I don't see any wine,’ she remarked. ‘There isn't any,’ said the March Hare. ‘Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,’ said Alice angrily. ‘It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,’ said the March Hare.”2 Remus closed the book again, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. He handed it to Tarrant, whispering a few words into his ear before he carried on with the story. 

“I thought you might like your own copy, cub.” 

Harry appeared in the doorway of the kitchen before Remus had even turned the page. He watched them both, his bottom lip wobbling and his eyes watering.

“Come in, Harry,” Tarrant whispered, holding out the hand that wasn’t clutching his new book in invitation. Harry scrambled up onto the same seat as Tarrant, snuggling against his younger brother’s side. Remus continued to read. Harry followed Remus’ finger moving underneath he words on the page, but Tarrant watched Harry, thought about Harry even as the words of the story washed over him. Harry had come to find him. Harry had noticed he was gone. Harry always noticed, not as quickly as Remus did, because Remus was quiet and solitary too and Harry was usually the centre of attention, but eventually Harry noticed that he was missing. Whenever he couldn’t find Tarrant fast enough from that point, Harry would cry. 

“I like you,”3 Tarrant whispered, pressing himself against Harry’s side. 

“I like you too,” Harry told him, linking their arms together as Remus continued reading, hiding his smile behind the book. 

_XXX_

September 1st 1986. 

It was the first day of primary school. But, as Lily had been informed a few years back when she had first started wondering about where to send her boys for their Muggle education, Wizards had primary schools too. Only Purebloods ever attended of course, having been signed up by their parents once their parents went to Hogwarts, but since James had placed his surname down some years ago, and his sons shared his surname, there was no problem with the twins’ going to that school. The Weasleys couldn’t afford it, so they taught their youngest from home during the year and the Hogwarts aged children helped out during the summer. Any half-bloods who had taken the surname of the Muggle parent did not receive an invitation because their name hadn’t been on record and so were generally sent to Muggle schools or home schooled. 

Tarrant and Harry would be attending the Little Institute for Little Wizards for the next five years. Malfoy would be going as well, with the Nott boy and that Zabini child who had moved over from Italy with his mother last year, she had gone to school here before getting married and leaving the country. Crabbe and Goyle, or Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum as Harry had taken to addressing them much to his brother’s amusement and their confusion, were almost like baby bodyguards for Draco. The three boys’ fathers were friends, and they would all be going to the same prep school. The girls, Pansy Parkinson being the only one that Harry remembered around his age would be going to a girl’s school this year, and Luna would probably be joining her next year. 

They stood in a line at the front of the class, as their names were called. One by one they were called to the teacher’s desk, made to give their name and a few facts about themselves before taking their assigned seat. Then the next person was called. Not all of these people would be going to Hogwarts, some would receive Beauxbatons Academy of Magic letters and a select few might even be picked for the Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning. Some might be near squibs with no hope of getting into any school, but all children had to have primary level education whether in school or at home. It was mandatory, no matter their magical level. 

Harry was called first, as the eldest and as ‘h’ came before ‘t’ in the alphabet too. When he sat down, everyone Harry didn’t already know turned around in their chairs to stare at him. Some asked him questions, some tried to touch him, but every one of them ignored Tarrant as he made his way to the teacher’s desk and gave his name in a soft whisper. 

Harry watched him though, paying his brother attention and no one else. 

“My name is Tarrant Potter. I am the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived and everyone seems to forget about me. Harry loves me though, and when we go to Hogwarts we’re both going to be in Gryffindor together. We’ll always be the most important people in each other’s’ lives.” 

“My brother is talking,” Harry muttered to a boy who kept trying to introduce himself. 

He was a snooty looking brunette, with an upturned nose. He gave a soft laugh and said, “who cares? He isn’t important. I don’t want to be _his_ friend, do I?”

“Well,” Harry said loudly once Tarrant had taken a seat at the desk beside him. The boy who had been about to speak after Tarrant waited at the front of the class, wide eyed and holding his breath to see what the Saviour had to say. “I don’t want to be friends with anybody who doesn’t want to be friends with my brother. So there. Now, that boy is about to talk so pay attention to him instead!” Harry folded his arms on his desk and stared straight ahead at the shorter boy who introduced himself as Andrew Staunton, squib. 

Tarrant reached across their desks, pulling at Harry’s hand until the boy unwound his arms and let them hang limply on either side of the desk. Tarrant took hold of one hand and held on. He didn’t let go until their mother came to bring them home at the end of the school day. 

**XXX**

1 – Lewis Carroll: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, chapter 1.   
2 – Alice, Chapter 7.   
3 – My sister used to say that instead of ‘I love you’ to my mum and her dad up until last year. She couldn’t pronounce certain letters very well. 

Thanks to star_faerie for betaing! :)


	5. Chapter 05

**Words:** 3,547  
 **Chapter 5**  
August 1st 1988. 

It was, technically speaking, Tarrant’s eight birthday. But, because he and Harry were twins, their party had been the night before, lasting well after their usual bedtime of nine until even the adults were half-asleep on their feet. Some families had chosen to stay the night, accepting the generously offered guest rooms with tired, happy smiles, and then departed after breakfast that morning. But the Malfoys were still in residence at Potter Manor. Narcissa and Lily conversed quietly, sitting side by side on a garden bench. Lucius and James watched them from the study window, before simultaneously turning to glimpse two of the three boys who were playing in the garden. Tarrant was standing alone, his hands over his eyes as he counted down from ten, giving Harry and Draco the chance to hide. 

Draco had slept with Harry that night, and it hadn’t escaped any of the adults’ notice. Nor had it passed by Tarrant unnoticed either. Draco had decided as the official best friend that only he could share a room with Harry, other than Tarrant of course, but Lily was firmly in the habit now of separating them at night. Harry was no longer allowed to lie with his brother until the younger fell asleep before moving to his room: he went straight to his room at bed time now, had for a year now and Tarrant was ok with it because he hadn’t known any differently being the one to sleep alone in the end. But Tarrant missed having someone breathing beside of him until he drifted off, and more often than not, he found himself sneaking into his godfather’s room. 

Peter had long since gone back to work as a photographer for the _Daily-Prophet_. He had even moved back into his own house after a year of freeloading off of the Potters. He had said he was too afraid to be alone after what Lord Voldemort did to him, but secretly, he wanted to be close to the Dark Lord’s mate while he was young and impressionable. So despite moving out, he did his best to spend as much time with Tarrant as possible, but not with Harry. In fact, he made it very difficult for the boys to be together when he was the one minding them. There was always something that Peter needed one to do and the other to do somewhere else, always separate tasks, separate favours, in separate places. Even if one refused, the other would agree and leave the first behind, so Peter won either way. And last night, Peter had lain beside Tarrant Potter as the boy slept, whispering in his ear about Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters and how one day, He would rise again, claim Tarrant as his own and kill the Boy-Who-Lived. While awake, Tarrant would never have listened to such talk, because it was a threat against his brother, his Harry, but in his sleep, at the sound of his godfather’s voice, Tarrant had smiled. 

Peter had slipped out early that morning, unnoticed, because he hadn’t actually been one of those invited to stay and he didn’t want Lily getting suspicious of him again. Not like the year before after that _incident_ where Harry had nearly drowned as Peter ‘taught’ him to swim. Tarrant had taken to water like a fish, but Harry wasn’t as fortunate. It took the life guard five minutes of Muggle CPR (which was unfortunate for Peter because he was sure the life guard had left the room) to get him breathing again, and while James thought Harry had just been traumatised and hallucinating, Lily believed her son when he said someone had held him under water. Tarrant had waved sadly at him from the front door as Peter disappeared, knowing, but not knowing why, that Peter’s escape from the Manor was somehow Harry’s fault. 

But Harry’s friend’s got to stay: Harry’s godfather and Harry’s best friend. While Tarrant’s only friend bar his brother had left. But Tarrant played with them because Harry was all he had and all he needed, as long as they were together and the same everything would be ok. He would be happy, without fame and fortune and friends, just as long as Harry was just like him. 

Equal. Like Mr Dumbledore had promised. 

And while the boys played, and Peter plotted, Lucius and James talked softly to one another standing by the window of the small study on the ground floor. Lucius wasn’t sure how his Lord would take the news upon his resurrection (because it would eventually happen, and he would eventually realize he was wrong), but matters were being placed into his hands now and Lucius would accept full responsibility and blame along with the Dark Lord’s wrath. 

“Why are you including a clause?” James asked curiously, waving the rolled up sheet of parchment that he had been holding for the past half hour. “It’s very unusual, isn’t it? To include one in a Pureblood betrothal contract.”

“It is,” Lucius agreed, “but it is also unusual to betroth an heir to another boy, even if he is not the heir.” 

“And if Harry was still the heir? Would that make a difference Lucius?” James glanced curiously over at him, wondering silently _why_ Lucius would risk engaging his son to another boy, even the Boy-Who-Lived, if firstly he was actually a Death Eater and secondly if it ran the risk of his family ending up heirless. James had Tarrant should Harry wish to marry a man, but Lucius only had Draco, and he doubted the Malfoys were the type of family who believed in adoption. 

He couldn’t know, of course, that Lucius and Severus had spent the best part of three months trying their best to prove that Tarrant Potter _couldn’t_ be Voldemort’s mate. As the mate of a magical creature, it was preferable that Harry remain a virgin. Peter would ensure that Tarrant remained untainted, because he was of the opinion that his godson was the right twin, but if he was wrong, as he was wrong there was no one to protect Harry’s virtue but Severus and Lucius. And there was nothing Severus could do about it. But engaging the boy to his son, through a traditional betrothal contract ensured that Harry, as the ‘woman’ in the relationship (he would be nothing but in regards to Voldemort, so he may as well get used to the prospect young) couldn’t engage in any kind of sexual behaviour. Kissing was acceptable, but that was literally the extent of it. Draco could do as he liked, because once the Dark Lord returned, Lucius already had a girl in mind for his son’s future wife, and again, she would be the one who needed to remain pure, not Draco. But this, as intolerable as it might be in Voldemort’s mind, would keep his mate off limits to anyone else, to everyone else. When He returned, He could claim Harry for himself, and _Lucius_ , not Peter, would be His favourite once again. 

“What if he falls in love, James? What if my son does? With a woman, or another man, or one of them ends up the mate of a Veela or some such? Do you want to see him forced into a marriage he doesn’t wish to engage in?” Lucius raised a fine blonde eyebrow, watching James think it over. The Malfoys had nothing against forcing their sons into unhappy marriages, but Draco had come to accept the possibility from the time he was six, just as Lucius had, and Abraxas before him. But the Potters had never truly engaged in the tradition. James uncle had, but his father had married a Black for love, just as James had married Lily because he loved her. 

“No, I suppose you’re right. Never much cared for the tradition myself, but they do seem rather close.” James glanced back out of the window, just in time for Harry to reach out and grab Draco’s hand in his. “Still think Draco should be the spouse though.” It was muttered lowly, almost missed by Lucius if not for the fact that the blonde was watching James’ mouth as he spoke. 

Pink lips twitched in amusement, imagining Lord Voldemort as the spouse of any husband before he shook the thought away. “No,” Lucius whispered back, “Harry will be the spouse, and Draco the husband, unless either falls in love before their eighteenth birthday.” Eighteen, Lucius thought: ten more years for the Dark Lord to rise and claim what was rightfully his. If it took Him longer than that, well, Lucius would need to revise his plan a little. 

_XXX_

“Is it like another birthday present?” Harry asked, that night at dinner, as James told him he had a surprise. 

“No, love,” James said with a grin. He pushed the parchment across the table, across Tarrant who sat at his left and over to Harry on Tarrant’s other side. 

Lily sat to his right as his spouse, and Tarrant to his left as the Heir. Regardless that Harry as the eldest would one day be Lord Potter, Tarrant would, in their attempt at fairness, inherit the majority of the Potter fortune and properties. It was something else that Lucius had pointed out when arguing that Harry could never be the husband: his family had put aside what amounted to a dowry for him, and despite being in line for all of Sirius’ and Severus’ worldly belongings, the Potters were leaving him not all that he was entitled to, but enough to attract a husband and a comfortable life. Harry didn’t mind, because strangers gave him money every day while Tarrant got nothing, but it did rather make him seem like a girl which Draco took great amusement in lately, kissing _his_ hand now instead of letting Harry do the kissing. 

“What is it?” Harry asked curiously, even as he unrolled the parchment. 

James had called Lily into the study for a quick discussion before James had even contemplated signing the contract. Only the fact that Harry had ten years to choose his own partner before he had to marry swayed her to the idea. Normal betrothals run out on the sixteenth birthday and the couple could either marry or be disinherited. Lucius had been oddly generous in his terms, but of course, again they didn’t know that his real reason for wanting to marry into the family was not actually marriage but to protect Harry from those he did not belong to. 

“You’ll see, love,” Lily told him with a smile. She held her hand out across the table, still smiling. “Would you like me to read it for you?” 

Harry’s eyes flicked over the words, understanding the basics of it all but getting caught on some of the longer, older words that he had never encountered before. “What’s betrothed mean?” He asked his mum, eyebrows furrowed. 

Tarrant let out a small gasp beside him. Peter had talked about that, about him doing that with someone else. Peter had told him how he would belong to someone important one day and he must act like he was betrothed and never let anyone else touch him except his parents and brother, and while Tarrant thought it meant hugging, it still kept him from climbing into Remus’ lap at story time the way he had used to as a child. 

“Means no one’s ‘lowed to touch you,” Tarrant muttered, ducking his head down to avoid his parents’ surprised looks. He was clever, they had known that, but they still hadn’t expected him to know anything about a formal engagement. 

“It means one day, when you’re older, and if you want to, you’re going to marry Draco. Would that be ok, sweetheart? He’s your friend, right, and he makes you happy? Doesn’t he?” 

Harry glanced at his mother, his eyebrows drawn down and his eyes narrowed as he thought about it. He considered Draco, who was pretty, and liked him and spoke to Tarrant because Harry said he had to instead of ignoring them both like Pansy Parkinson had. He wondered what it would be like to be married to Draco, because of course that meant sleeping in the same bed all the time, and his mum couldn’t do anything about it, she couldn’t make him go back to his own room when he was tired or even when he wasn’t and he could lie awake the way he used to and listen to Draco breathe at night. That was the selling point at the moment, to the eight-year-old it was all about things he had _used_ to do, like share a bed with Tarrant, rather than things that actual married couples did like _share_ a bed, because he was too young to understand the difference. So he agreed. And Tarrant disagreed. 

Peter hadn’t been talking about Draco, but that was beside the point. Harry and he were supposed to be equal. 

“I want to be betrothed to Draco too!” Tarrant wailed, crossing his arms over his chest angrily. “I want to marry him too!”

“Harry’s going to marry him,” James said. 

“He might not, sweetheart,” his mum added softly, “he might change his mind when he’s older.” 

“But if Harry gets to marry him, then so do I!” Tarrant was adamant. No matter what his parents said or which way they tried to explain it, nothing would stop Tarrant’s crying once he started but promising that somehow, someway, even marriage wouldn’t take him from Harry’s side. It wasn’t what Tarrant had been hoping for, but it was the best he was going to get for now. 

_XXX_

November 17th 1989. 

There was never a quiet moment at the Burrow, and today was no exception. Molly had her children home schooled, because with as many as there were and her unable to work, they couldn’t afford the tuition for the Little Institute for Little Wizards. Bill and Charlie had gone, before they started at Hogwarts, but after Molly’s brothers had been killed and she had had to quit work to mind them all of the time instead of on rotation amongst her family, the tuition had been one more unpaid bill in the pile of unpaid bills. Molly was more than capable of teaching her kids to read and write, but it did have the unfortunate side-effect of keeping her children isolated outside of their siblings, the Diggorys and the Lovegoods. Cedric was friends with Charlie being the Weasley closest to his own age, and Luna was a very odd little girl who preferred her own company, or Harry’s when he was around. Molly was, as a result, more than pleased that when her friend Lily came to visit she always brought her twin boys with her. 

Ron had taken to Tarrant like no man’s business, despite the fact that Harry was the one with the faded lightning bolt scar and the reputation to accompany it. Ginny was in awe of them both, but mostly Harry, smiling and giggling whenever he was nearby, but it was the twins who were his actual friends. Percy though, Percy liked Tarrant, and on occasion he would actually talk at the dinner table, asking Tarrant questions about books he had read and stories Remus had told him that were Muggle and had never been heard at the Burrow before. A friend would be good for Percy, Molly and Lily both agreed, and for Tarrant too. 

Bill and Charlie had their own friends at Hogwarts, but Percy didn’t really talk to anyone there either, and Fred and George were only after starting their first year and could use all of the friends they could get after pranking half of Hogwarts the month before. Since it was school time, only Ron and Ginny were home. Arthur was at work. Lily and Molly sat themselves at the kitchen table with a cup of tea each, happy enough to leave the children to play. 

“Slytherins are evil, you know?” Ron told them, standing on the coffee table and trying to look and sound as important as Percy sometimes acted. It made him seem rude and pompous and Harry only rolled his eyes at his behaviour. “Everyone says that if you end up in Slytherin then you’re going to be a Dark wizard,” Ron told them. 

“Or witch!” Ginny interrupted. The eight-year-old blushed heavily as all three boys turned to state at her. 

“Or witch,” Ron added with a roll of his eyes, because Ginny would only go crying to their mum if he ignored her. “You-Know-Who was a Slytherin and he went bad, didn’t he! And dad says the Malfoys are just as bad!” 

“Oi!” Tarrant interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “That’s our betrothed you’re talking about. Draco’s going to be in Slytherin and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that!” His arms were crossed angrily over his chest, the way he usually stood when he was in a mood. Harry, on the other hand, adopted his usual pose: hands on hips, one foot tapping slowly, a scowl firmly in place as he ground his teeth. 

Ron frowned at the use of ‘our’, before ignoring it and launching into a well-practised spiel about how Malfoy equalled evil. His dad had said it often enough about Lucius Malfoy and as his son Draco must be just as bad, and it was his duty as Tarrant’s friend to warn him about the evils of Harry’s fiancé.

Harry ignored the use of the plural as well, because he had long ago accepted that Tarrant would always want to share and that it was his duty as the eldest to allow that. Harry had to share, because it was only fair, and his parents had promised to treat them equally after all. Just because he would be sleeping with Draco when he was older didn’t mean he couldn’t lie beside Tarrant once in a while until his brother fell asleep. They had done it as children and they could do it when they were all grown up too, because once they were married his mum couldn’t stop them. They would all live in one big house, Potter Manor, Harry had decided because Lucius’ house elves never let them share rooms at Malfoy Manor, and they would all be together and married or share two separate beds, because apparently brothers weren’t supposed to sleep together according to Sirius, who had laughed loudly as he explained. But Tarrant had always let Harry into his bed and his mum hadn’t cared until they started school and Harry got into fights about it with some of the crueller children he had encountered. It was only stopped to protect Tarrant from being bullied, so Harry didn’t see why it would matter once they were adults and Tarrant could defend himself with magic. He had it all worked out in his head, innocent and naive and honourable, but of course they both couldn’t marry Draco and they certainly couldn’t marry each other, and if Lucius and Peter had anything to do about it one of them would be marrying Lord Voldemort in the end regardless. 

But Harry didn’t know that, so he defended his brother and his fiancé and insisted that, “there is nothing wrong with being a Slytherin! I’m going to be a Slytherin with Draco and we’re going to be brilliant, all of us, right Tarrant?” 

“Don’t be silly, Harry,” the younger boy exclaimed. He brushed his dark hair out of his green eyes and laughed softly, the way children do when they’re trying to sound cool. “We’re going to be in Gryffindor together. And then we’ll be together all of the time, like dad and Peter were in school, brothers, all of the time. Right Harry?” 

Harry thought about it, forehead creasing lightly as he tried to work it out in his head. In the end, it was all the same. If one was a Slytherin and the other was a Gryffindor, Harry couldn’t go to both houses! So it was his brother or his fiancé, and if it couldn’t be Slytherin because Tarrant didn’t want to go there, then there was only one choice left. 

“Right!” Harry agreed his emerald eyes wide and his black hair falling over his face. He brushed it back off of his forehead, consequentially showing Ron the thin white scar that he could only see because he knew where to look for it, and said, “Together forever!”

Tarrant turned to Ron with a smug smile, his arms remaining crossed for a moment longer before he unfolded them and reached out to link hands with his brother. Harry squeezed his hand tightly, pale fingers entwined. Tarrant wasn’t going to marry whoever Peter kept telling him about, and Harry wasn’t going to marry Draco either, because if Gryffindors hated Slytherins then the opposite must be true. Harry was going to be a Gryffindor with him, and Draco would hate him, and their mother had promised that if Harry didn’t love Draco they wouldn’t have to get married. It was only fair then that Harry should love him instead. He was all Harry should need, because Harry was all he had. 

**XXX**

Yes, Tarrant is a clingy fucker but I actually know twins like this. One is fine having a good time alone, and the other only starts arguments because they’re spending time apart. But no one can be together with someone all of the time! Tarrant will… change soon… see if you can guess why? It’ll be in the next chapter anyway, along with (drum roll) DUDLEY!


	6. Chapter 06

**Words:** 7,437  
 **Chapter 6**  
June 23rd 1991. 

Lily and her sister hadn’t really gotten along since the day Lily received her Hogwarts invitation. Petunia had been jealous and spiteful and afraid of being left behind, forgotten, almost the same way James thought Peter was, bitter about their new relationships, their new friends and new worlds. But Peter was a firmer part of the Potters’ life now, Tarrant’s godfather, and Lily had even made up with Severus, Harry’s godfather, who had been given an open invitation to their home whenever he pleased (which Lily had refrained from extending to Peter). And so, she thought to herself, why should she not try to mend bridges with her sister too? 

Petunia had burnt the first few letters she had received from Lily, and the eighth, ninth and tenth birthday cards her son, Dudley, received by owl post. For his eleventh birthday, Lily had sent the post by Muggle means, and Dudley had been the one to notice it first. He had screamed when his mother tried to take it away, and he had flailed his fist and hit his father when Vernon had attempted to burn the card, and in the end Dudley got what he had wanted. Another card, another present, more family to fawn over him and pinch his cheeks and tell him how handsome he looked in his brand-new Smeltings uniform (that he insisted on wearing to the zoo that day). He wouldn’t listen to his mother when she tried to warn him that her sister and the twins were freaks. Because as far as Dudley was concerned, anyone who sent him a card with a whole fifty-pound note in it was _fantastic_ , and he wanted them around for all of the birthdays he would ever have, ever.

That was how Lily and James found themselves herding their boys through the entrance of London Zoo, and seeking out the family of three who did not look entirely happy to see them. 

Vernon was a large man, with a wide middle and a neck so flabby his jaw and shoulders couldn’t be told apart. He stood stiffly, his face a strange shade of purple as he pressed pale lips together. Petunia, on the other hand, was unhealthily thin, but she had been as a child too. Too tall to be willowy, too broad to be beautiful, and altogether too thin. Dudley was a slightly smaller version of his father, with straw-like blond hair, and watery blue eyes. James thought he looked a little like Peter, squinting up at them in excitement, the only one pleased to see them. The child ran towards them, his trousers pulled taunt and his shirt coming un-tucked over his wobbly belly as he ran. When the boy stopped before them, he held his hand out expectantly. James shook it briefly, as did the two boys, while Lily opted to pull him into a hug. 

“Where’s the money?” Dudley asked, glancing confusedly down at the empty hand he was still holding out. “It’s my birthday?”

“We sent you money in the card, did you not get it?” Lily asked, glancing at Petunia as if to accuse her of keeping the money for herself. The elder sister scowled, turning her nose up at the thought. 

“Well yeah, but last year I got thirty-six presents. This year I only got thirty-four and your money, so I’m short one!” Dudley waved his hand furiously, as if to remind them that he was still waiting for a treat. When none was forthcoming, the blonde scowled, his face screwing up in anger and hate. “Why did you bother coming if you weren’t going to bring me anything?” He cried at them, eyes watering, and completely aware of the stares he was drawing from the passers-by. 

“Oh,” Harry said softly after a moment of watching his aunt trying to console her wailing child. “You can have my sweets if you like?” James grinned, and Harry felt something like excitement boiling inside of him, but different, harsher, crueller, bubbling up in his chest as Dudley snatched the brightly wrapped sweets out of the palm of his offered hand. 

Before Lily could stop him, Dudley had all of the sweets opened and crammed into his mouth all at once. James knew exactly where Harry had gotten those sweets from, and he was the one who convince the child it would be amusing to bring them with him, just in case. Blood began to pour from Dudley’s nose, and saliva dribbled down the sides of his mouth as his tongue began to swell to three times its size and poked out of his mouth. Tears ran down his face, and snot dripped from his nose as the sweets Sirius had bought from Zonko’s and given to Harry worked their magic on the Muggle. 

“Mummy!” The boy wailed, but it sounded more like “mhugmy”, as he tried to talk using the tongue that now hung down to his chin. 

Tarrant looked horrified, glancing at his brother in shock because he had never seen Harry do anything that cruel before, that wasn’t in defence of Tarrant himself. Harry was supposed to be a Gryffindor, brave and honest and true, and they were supposed to be together forever and happy, and Draco, who was the cruel one, the horrid one, the Death Eater’s son, would be in Slytherin and Harry would forget all about him. But this, this was more like something Draco would do… Or Fred, or George… or Sirius or James, though Tarrant didn’t know that. He spent most of his time with Remus or Peter, neither of whom were notorious pranksters despite being members of the Marauders. 

Harry had been taught by the best though, and he did enjoy a good prank now and then, but he tried not to pull too many of them, because his idea of a prank was more along the lines of Sirius sending Severus to meet a werewolf on the full moon than turning someone’s hair blue or slipping them a Canary Cream. Harry didn’t think his father would be too pleased with that. Nor would he be pleased by Harry’s smirk, despite the fact that James was laughing a little as Lily led Dudley towards a bathroom stall so she could undo the effects of the charmed sweets, because Harry wasn’t amused, Harry was vindictive. The boy, his cousin had been rude, and his mother had been so excited about meeting the estranged members of her family after so long. Harry knew that Dudley’s rudeness, his greed and real reason for wanting to meet with them, had hurt his mother’s feelings, and he couldn’t stand for that. She was his, and she deserved to be treated better than Dudley had treated her. 

It was also why Harry didn’t really like Peter. Not only because the man tried his hardest to separate Harry and Tarrant, but also because he knew that Lily didn’t like Peter. There was something about him that upset Lily, that made her uncomfortable, and Harry disliked him on principle as a result. If he could hurt Peter and get away with it, he would. But tormenting Dudley Dursley would have to do for now. 

_XXX_

Dudley had fast gotten over his fear of Harry, after Lily had healed him and Petunia had bought him several stuffed animals and the largest ice cream cone any of the children had ever seen. James, not one to be outdone, bought two of the same ice creams for his sons. They weren’t as nice as Fortescue’s ice cream, and James had ended up finishing off them both because Harry had felt a little sickly after eating half, and Tarrant hadn’t wanted one to begin with. After the ice creams had been finished, as if bolstered by the sugar rush, Dudley took it upon himself to take charge of the outing, giving directions and dictations, and demanding that they visit every place before the reptile house because snakes were stupid, boring and lazy and Dudley didn’t want to waste his time with them. But Harry liked snakes, more than any of the other boring Muggle animals at London Zoo, which had nothing on Rotterdam Zoo, with its merpeople and Hippogryffs and Dragons. 

“Dad,” Harry whispered, hurrying to catch the man’s attention before Lily whisked him off in the direction the Dursleys were heading. 

James turned and shot his son a grin, saying softly enough that his wife couldn’t hear, “those sweets worked brilliantly, eh? I bet we won’t ever be invited for another visit with the Muggles!” He reached out to ruffle Harry’s hair, and the boy let him, glancing up at his father with a sly smirk on his face. 

“I’ll tell mum that it was your idea and that you gave them to me,” Harry said. 

James interrupted with a shouted, “Sirius gave them to you!” 

“Well, then it will just get Sirius in trouble as well, wouldn’t it? But I won’t tell mum, _if_ you let me sneak away from the Muggles? I want to go see the snakes, and this zoo is pretty boring, I can tell just from looking around and anyway Dudley is annoying me.” 

“Blackmail?” James asked, stifling a laugh. “That’s it; Snape isn’t allowed to babysit you anymore!” 

“I’m almost eleven, dad, I don’t have babysitters anymore! _Severus_ visits for the pleasure of my company, not because he thinks I need coddling. So, anyway, can I leave?” Harry folded his arms across his chest, before moving them to his hips and tapping his left foot impatiently on the ground.

James glanced up, searching for Lily’s hair in the crowd. She was quite a way away from them already, too busy desperately trying to strike up a conversation with her sister to notice that only one son was trailing obediently behind her. James shook his head, “Sorry kiddo, your mother would kill me if I let you wander off by yourself!” Harry tried not to let his disappointment or annoyance show on his face, but he mustn’t have done a good job because James was laughing again and ruffling his hair. “But if we sneak off together right now we have twice the chance of hiding from your mother and her delightful family. What do you say, kiddo?”

James and Harry traded quick grins. Any resentment he had been feeling the moment his father had told him no had evaporated. He should have known that his father would hate the Dursleys as much as Harry did. James wouldn’t stand for anyone upsetting Lily either; in that respect he was very much his father’s son, though he had Sirius’ darker sense of humour, Severus’ lack of tolerance for idiots, and Lily’s love of learning. Tarrant was the only one who still believed Harry belonged in Gryffindor, but, then again, Tarrant still insisted that both he and Harry were betrothed to Draco Malfoy. 

James glanced at his son from the corner of his eyes, as they ran hand in hand towards the reptile house. Both of them were laughing, but there was something about the way Harry kept glancing over his shoulder in the Dursleys direction that worried James. “Harry?” he asked, as they finally came to a stop just in the doorway of the reptile house, “it’s not because they are Muggles right? Because I know Muggles are strange and sort of boring, regardless of what Arthur thinks, but they can’t help not having magic, just like a Squib. It’s not their fault, you know that right kiddo?”

“I know, dad. I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly decide all Muggles should die, I just don’t like those Muggles. Did you see the look on mum’s face, when Dudley started talking? He hurt her feelings, and Petunia has been ignoring her for years. Even Peter’s not that rude to mum! She had no right… no right! And the way she let her child speak to an adult!”

“I know, Harry,” James said, placing a calming hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It was rude and cruel, and Lily deserves so much better. But just because they are ignorant and offensive doesn’t mean you have the right to hurt them.”

“Dad!” Harry exclaimed with a laugh. He pressed a palm against the glass closest to him. “It was your idea to give him the sweets.” 

“Just checking to make sure you weren’t planning to do anything else, for my own peace of mind, you know. Your mother wouldn’t be too pleased with me if you did and I didn’t think of checking.” James smiled, feeling much calmer now. Harry wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t offend Tarrant first, or upset Lily, or insult James, Sirius or Severus. Harry was protective, but he wasn’t unnecessarily cruel. James knew that, knew that no matter what house Harry got into (even Slytherin), he wouldn’t be that sort of person. Harry was too good to be that sort of person, even though he was prone to terrible bouts of temper. But he was hardly ever jealous or petty, not like his brother, and he’d never wished anything horrible on another person like Tarrant did on Draco. And knowing some of the thoughts Tarrant had about the blond, gave Albus more reason to worry about him, than James had to worry about his eldest son. 

Lost in his musings, it took James a few moments to grasp what was happening right in front of his eyes. The snake, which had previously been asleep curled up upon a rock, was now swaying side to side with its nose pressed up against the glass where Harry’s palm was still held. If not for the glass, Harry would have been able to pet the boa constrictor’s nose. The snake was hissing furiously, tongue flicking rapidly against the glass, and James was seconds away from pulling Harry back to safety as the snake butted up against the glass as if trying to get free. But then Harry spoke, and he didn’t just speak to the snake, he _spoke_ to it, in hisses and rasps and small flicks of his own tongue. 

“What?” James gasped, mouth hanging open unattractively as he stared with wide hazel eyes at his _Parseltongue_ -speaking son. 

“ **What**?” Harry repeated, still unconsciously using the snake-tongue. 

“You’re speaking to the snake, Harry. Did you know that? How long-?” James swallowed heavily, his hands shook as he reached to grab Harry by the shoulders. 

“Dad?” Harry asked, watching his father warily. “Are you angry with me? Severus said you’d be angry with me, but it’s just like what you said about Muggles and Squibs. I can’t help it, dad. It’s just something I can do, like you can turn into Prongs.” 

“Snape knows?” James rasped out. His throat felt like it had closed up, and it was becoming harder to breathe as he thought about what that meant. Was his view on Slytherins, or anything related, so close-minded that Harry had been afraid to come to him when he learnt that he could speak to snakes, something only Lord Voldemort and the descendants of Slytherin could do? He had gone to Snape, who was a Slytherin, and a Death Eater spy, and the boy’s godfather, but he had been afraid to come to him, to James, his father. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Even though he knew the answer, he had to ask. It was because Harry would have known James was prejudice and biased, and would have reacted angrily. 

“I didn’t want you to hate me.” It was soft, almost silent, but James heard him anyway and his head snapped up sharply. 

“What? No! No, Harry! I could never hate you! It doesn’t matter what you do, or what you can do, or can’t do, you are my son and I _love_ you. I could never hate you, or disown you, or anything stupid like that. The thought of it alone! Merlin, kiddo, did you really believe that?” 

Harry gave a small half-shrug, looking away uncomfortably as he said, “Severus said that too, but I couldn’t help it. I mean, Sirius’ family disowned him, and Andromeda, Draco says that if he gets into Hufflepuff then his father will disown him and he’d have to leave Hogwarts, so I mean, it was sort of reasonable, right?”

“Harry, Lucius wasn’t being serious, and Draco was most certainly teasing you. Do you think the man who engaged his son to another boy because they liked each other, regardless of the threat of remaining heirless, would hate that child for being a Hufflepuff?” James raised an eyebrow, pulling Harry towards him so their foreheads could touch. 

“No, I guess not.”

“And Sirius’ family were nuts. They were really big supporters of You-Know-Who-”

“It’s Voldemort, dad.” Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes at his father’s use of the Dark Lord’s moniker. 

“-and when Sirius and Andromeda did what they did, the family took it to mean that they wouldn’t be joining the ‘cause’ with them, and of course they wouldn’t be, but that had nothing to do with what House Sirius and Andy were sorted into. Even if you were a Slytherin, Harry,” James said, pressing a soft kiss to his son’s forehead, thinking about Voldemort and Harry and some of the theories Dumbledore had shared with him, “I would love you to the moon and back. Nothing, not even you waking up tomorrow and wanting to kill all Muggles, will stop me loving you.” 

“I love you too, daddy,” Harry whispered. He reached up, tugging the elder man down into a hug, and James squeezed him back tightly. 

He thought about his options. Gryffindor was out; Harry just wasn’t a Gryffindor, despite both of his parents having been sorted into that House. Hufflepuff was a potential choice, because Harry was loyal and kind, and he was smart, so he could be a Ravenclaw either. Or a Slytherin, especially if he really was Lord Voldemort’s mate. Just the thought of it made James shudder with dread, but it was either that, or Harry really was the one that would have to fight Voldemort and defeat him, or risk dying in the process. What was better, James wondered as he hugged his son, a prophesised death sentence or a fate worse than death? 

“What was the snake saying, kiddo?” James asked when they pulled apart. 

So Harry told him, and they moved through the enclosure, Harry talking with different snakes and translated for his father who watched raptured and excited. “And that one? What does that one have to say?” James would ask, pointing at a different breed, and Harry would dash in that direction to strike up a conversation with that snake, and James would follow, listen, exclaim, and ask once again, “What about that one? Over there!” 

They kept it up, until they were back to where they had started, back in front of the boa constrictor’s enclosure, where the snake was begging to be let out so Harry could pet him. Harry was trying to explain that it wasn’t possible, that he wasn’t allowed, he didn’t even know a spell to vanish the glass, when someone shoved into him. He fell to his knees with a cry, narrowing his eyes, as he glanced up at Dudley, who had his nose pressed against the glass. The blonde’s mouth was open wide with excitement, “Look, daddy! Look, mummy!” He exclaimed, “Look at the snake; it’s actually doing something interesting!” 

Harry glared, his fists clenching at his sides. Tarrant scowled in Dudley’s direction as well, before leaning down to help his brother to his feet. “Where were you?” Tarrant asked softly. 

Harry didn’t answer. He kept staring at the glass, and the snake, and the boy who had shoved him to the ground. As James and Lily demanded apologises from the adult Muggles, Harry held out his hand, anger thrumming inside of his veins, and he felt the urge to humiliate, to punish the boy’s cruelty. The glass disappeared, and Dudley fell forward with a scream and a splash as he landed in the small pool of water just inside of the glass. The snake glanced down at him, then up at Harry, who was watching in astonishment, and then down at the prey lying at his theoretical feet. 

“ **Don’t hurt him**!” Harry shouted, glancing around in panic to see if anyone was paying them any attention. 

The snake did as he was told, and instead of darting forward and coiling around the Muggle who was whimpering pitifully, it shot forward, striking like lightning and wrapped itself around Harry’s legs. It coiled upwards, slithering its way up Harry’s body until it hung around his torso, neck and shoulders. “ **Now, pet me, human** ,” the snake commanded, “ **and do not dare put me back in the prison**.” It squeezed once in warning, before loosening its coils as Harry’s hand slowly, hesitantly, began to stroke the top of his head, before getting braver, bolder. 

As the Muggles finally realised something unnatural was going on, James broke out of his amusement long enough to shepherd his family out of the reptile house. Lily had cast quick disillusionment charms, on Harry and the snake, and Notice-Me-Not’s on the rest of her immediate family. She scowled, irritated both with Petunia’s son and her own, as she led them to the exit of the Zoo. 

“Mum, you know I still have the snake, right?” 

Lily stopped when Harry spoke, turning to him with wide, horrified eyes. “What? Oh dear,” she gasped after a moment. 

“Dudley is stuck in the snake tank. The glass reappeared as we were leaving.” James told them, sounding smug and amused. “Serves the nasty boy right well, I think.” Harry might have been good and loyal, but James was both of those things _and_ petty, which was probably where Tarrant had gotten it from. No one had the right to hurt his family without James seeking retribution! 

“Hey, Tarrant, kid, you try talking to the snake!” James grinned, like it was the best idea anyone had ever had throughout history, and he bounced on the balls of his feet as they were finally away from the Muggles enough for Lily to cancel the disillusionment charm on her eldest son. 

Harry and the snake were revealed with a wave of Lily’s wand. Tarrant licked his lips, looking and feeling nervous. Lord Voldemort could talk to snakes, Tarrant had read that somewhere before. Harry could talk to snakes, but that didn’t mean anything special. Tarrant was the one who was betrothed to someone special, someone powerful, to Peter’s Lord. A Lord! That meant he was better than his brother, even if Mr. Dumbledore and his parents insisted they were _equal_ , despite that. He was the special one, and if Harry could speak Parseltongue then so could he, because he was better, stronger, smarter and Peter’s Lord was going to love him more than Draco would ever love Harry. 

Tarrant opened his mouth, and said, “I can speak to you, snake, because I am a Parseltongue too.” 

“ **No, you are not human** ,” the snake replied, with a hissy sort of laugh. 

Harry cringed, watching something ugly and horrible roll across his brother’s face like a storm. Tarrant gritted his teeth, eyeing Harry with as much distaste as the ten-year-old could muster. “Mother, I’m tired. I want to go home.” He grabbed hold of Lily’s hand, refusing to look in his brother’s direction or at the father who seemed so pleased and accepting of his eldest son’s Dark gift. “I want to go now.”

Lily side-apparated him away, after sharing a worried glance with her husband. James brought Harry along a few minutes later, after explaining to him that some people were just naturally jealous, and sometimes they didn’t mean it, but jealousy was horrible and hurtful anyway, and Harry needed to be the one to rise above it in this instance. “Keep a tight hold on that snake, yeah kiddo? You ready?”

Harry gave a firm nod, promising silently to apologise to his brother once he was home. He steeled himself as James apparated, taking Harry with him with a soft crack and a sickening, squeezing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Harry let the snake loose in the garden, promising to leave the backdoor open for the snake when he decided to return after his explorations and then went in search of Tarrant. 

But Tarrant was curled up in Peter’s lap, crying, when Harry found him. Harry glanced at the sight, and took in the ugly sneer that Peter sent him, the Chosen One, but the one not Chosen by the Dark Lord’s creature (or so he believed), and he couldn’t muster up enough bravery to make himself enter the room and face a person who hated and another who was supposed to love him, but didn’t seem to be acting that way lately. 

Harry left. He’d apologize later. And he did try, the next day, and the day after, but Tarrant didn’t want to listen, so Harry gave up and left his brother alone. 

_XXX_

July 31st 1991. 

“Look at mine!” Harry said, grinning from ear to ear. He waved his Hogwarts letter up in Draco’s face. The boy snatched it out of his hand, and opened it up. It said the exact thing as Draco’s letter had, apart from a name change, but Draco read it out in a terrible imitation of Dumbledore’s voice, just as he had read out his own. 

The children laughed, excited and pleased with themselves, despite the fact that just by having usable magic practically guaranteed them admittance to Hogwarts. They still felt as if they had earned it, as if they had done something to prove that they belonged in their world. They were special.

Tarrant stood silently at the back of the group, most of whom were future Slytherins, or Ginny and Luna who wouldn’t be going to school till the following September. Ron stood beside him, both of them glaring at the back of Malfoy’s head. 

“Can’t wait to get to Hogwarts and get into Gryffindor and be rid of that stupid prat,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes as Draco started bragging about having already bought his wand. Ron had been given one that his brother had stopped using a few years ago, and Percy’s old pet owl. His family couldn’t afford a fancy new eagle owl, like Malfoy’s could, or a new wand with a dragon heartstring core, ya-de-da. Harry and Tarrant had gotten their wands the day before, and their parents had bought them an owl each, but they weren’t bragging to anyone who would listen. And they definitely weren’t shooting Ron superior glances with every other sentence like Malfoy was. 

“I know. Maybe then Harry will realise how wrong all of this is, his being friends with them, talking to snakes, practising Dark magic with Snape.” Ron shot him a horrified look, mouthing the words ‘snakes’ and ‘dark’ repeatedly to himself. Tarrant ignored him though, knowing he was overreacting a little, but any Lord was bound to be powerful and accomplished, and Harry getting private duelling lessons from Snape meant he would be more accomplished than Tarrant, and he must be powerful if he was a Parseltongue. There was no way Tarrant could compete, which didn’t matter as his Lord _didn’t want Harry_ , but Tarrant couldn’t help the burn of jealousy in his heart. 

When they were at Hogwarts, when they were in Gryffindor, together without Draco, together, they way it was always meant to be, everything would be ok again. It would all go back to the way it had been when they were children, and Tarrant wasn’t always jealous or bitter and Harry loved him more than Draco. Not to say that Harry didn’t love his brother, because he did, but Tarrant just found it so much harder to see the good things lately, and Peter didn’t want him to remember them either. 

When they were back at Hogwarts everything would be ok again. 

_XXX_

The adults watched them. Lucius and James standing to one side, whispering softly between themselves about Parseltongue and the future bonding that would never take place if Lord Voldemort returned. Lily and Albus snuck away to the kitchen, and the boa constrictor they had accidentally stolen from the zoo and decided to keep slithered in after them. They spoke about Parseltongue too, nervously wringing their hands in front of them or weaving fingers through beards or dress hems. 

“I was looking at the family tapestry. James is descended from the Peverells. You once told me that Voldemort was too. Wouldn’t it make more sense for Harry to have received the gift through James’ bloodline, the way Voldemort inherited from his mother?”

“Tarrant should have inherited it too then.” Albus argued, steepling his fingers in front of his stomach. “I think it has to do with the prophecy. Tom was too proud of his gift and heritage as a child, he likely still is. I doubt he’d willingly destroy another Parseltongue if he knew. Perhaps that is the power we know not?”

“Or it could be the mate bond, Albus! He won’t kill his mate!”

“We don’t know-” Albus tried to insist, but he didn’t get far before Lily shushed him. 

“We know. It’s just a matter of making sure Harry doesn’t find out. James is happy to believe it could be either outcome, a mating or a duel to the death, but you and I both know differently, Albus. The Dark Lord is mated to Harry. I found the bloodstone; he still sleeps with it under his pillow. He has dreams about a boy named Tom who is searching for him. Harry doesn’t understand what they mean, but considering you always call Voldemort ‘Tom’ I felt it was safe to assume they were the same person. Harry is his mate. Harry is a descendant of Salazar Slytherin too.”

“As is Tarrant,” Dumbledore said. Lily agreed. James and Tarrant were both descendants too.

“But Harry is the only Parseltongue.” The kitchen door inched open a little, and hazel eyes peered through the crack. “You know why Albus, you know why. Despite how often you insist they are equal, no matter how hard we try to treat them equally, Harry is so much more powerful. I can practically taste the magic off of him sometimes, when he’s angry, or scared, and he wakes up shaking after a nightmare and everything in his room is floating inches off of the ground or caught in a tornado that doesn’t dissipate until Harry calms down. Tarrant never does that.”

Albus considered arguing that was because Tarrant might have better control, but he knew it would be a lie. Harry was more powerful, more outgoing, more of a people person but not in the way that Tom Riddle had been, manipulating and controlling the crowds to get his desired result. Harry was one of those people that was genuinely liked and whose company was sought after for nothing more than the company. Tarrant though, while not as magically powerful as his brother, was better at reading faces and body languages, and giving people what they wanted or thought they wanted, acting perfectly, saying all the right things, pleasing everyone when it suited him. Just like Tom Riddle. Like Lucius had once thought, Tarrant would make a great spy. But, Albus did not think he had what it would take to entertain Lord Voldemort for long. The man would grow bored of him, suspicious, and then upon realising they were not mates, angry and vicious. But Harry. Harry had, if anyone had it, what it took to defeat Voldemort. 

Albus Dumbledore had long stopped believing the prophecy meant for them to fight. He could have defeated Gellert another way, if he hadn’t been such a coward and so greedy, if his sister hadn’t been caught in the crossfire. But Harry was better than him, a stronger person. And he could do it, Albus thought, he could save himself, the world, and Voldemort too if everything worked out well. 

So, Dumbledore only had to worry about saving Tarrant Potter. 

_XXX_

Tarrant had followed them to the kitchen, pushing the door open a little, just in time to hear his mother claim Harry was stronger than him, more magical somehow. Dumbledore had replied, softly exclaiming he hoped Voldemort realised that too, and Tarrant had run. He had left the door nudged open a crack, but hopefully they wouldn’t think it had been him eavesdropping. 

He ran in search of Peter Pettigrew, the only adult he trusted with his best interests, the only family member he had that thought _he_ was better, stronger, the one who didn’t worship at the altar of the Boy-Who-Lived. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, he knew, but Peter often whispered to him as he slept that if it wasn’t for Harry, Tarrant would be the acclaimed one, the one with the statue, with the riches donated from thankful strangers, the one his parents loved the most (even though he knew they loved them equally). When he woke, it was hard to push those thought away, because they whispered through his head every moment his eyes were open, making it harder and harder to remember the good things about his family. 

Sirius was a traitor to his family. 

Snape was a traitor to the cause.

Dumbledore thought he was evil. 

Remus was a filthy animal, nothing like the wonderful man Tarrant had thought him to be growing up. A werewolf. A creature. A monster. 

Lily and James loved Harry more. 

“And Harry plans to take your betrothed away from you.” Peter hissed into his ear, as Tarrant sobbed against his chest. “He wants the Lord for himself and Dumbledore is planning to help him, to take the Lord away from you.”

“Who is he?” Tarrant asked, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe. 

Peter swallowed nervously. This was the deciding moment, where he would learn if all of his plots had worked or if they would blow up in his face. “Lord Voldemort, the greatest, Darkest Wizard this world has ever known. He will rise again, Tarrant, and come for you, to claim you and reward you for your loyalty.” 

Tarrant looked up with wide hopeful eyes. He licked his lips nervously. “I’ve read about him. He sounded amazing, but father took the book from me before I could finish it.”

“I’ll owl you some when you get to Hogwarts.” Peter promised. He waved his wand, drying Tarrant’s face and straightening his robes and removing the tear stains from his sleeve.

“Will I be good enough?” Tarrant asked, worrying his bottom lip. “Better than Harry? Good enough that he’ll want me?”

Peter used one hand to raise Tarrant’s chin, the fingers curled into the boy’s right cheek painfully. “You will be the best. I’ll make sure of it.” Peter smirked, the curl of his lips reminding Tarrant of a shark about to attack. “And when He returns, He will award me with gratitude the likes of which have never been seen before, and it will all be thanks to you, child.”

After that, Harry Potter, the prophecy child, would die. 

_XXX_

September 1st 1991. Hogwarts. 

After his talk with Peter, after the assurances that he had desperately needed that he could be better than his brother, would be better, and had no reason to be jealous, Harry and Tarrant’s relationship went almost back to normal. Harry began sneaking into Tarrant’s room after bedtime, lying on top of the covers, talking and laughing breathlessly as they talked about all of the adventures they would have at Hogwarts, and then listening to Tarrant breathe deeply in his sleep until Harry felt tired enough to sneak back to his room. 

Kreacher watched him sometimes, appearing in Harry’s room in Potter Manor under the guise of passing correspondence to Lord Black (who he had decided should be the Parseltongue-speaking Harry, and not the blood traitor Sirius Black), and instead telling him all about ‘the young Master Black’, and about Lord Voldemort whom he had met once, to his great honour. Harry would speak to his snake, which he had eventually agreed upon the name ‘Elphaba’ with, because not only did the snake turn out to be female, but the only Wizard the snake could name off the top of her head was the ‘Wonderful Wizard of Oz’. Kreacher took great delights in cramming as much history regarding actual wonderful Wizards into both Harry and the snake’s head in the last months before Hogwarts. And the one that interested Harry the most was Lord Voldemort. He also happened to be the one Kreacher spoke about the most. 

Harry found that he was interested in that Wizard, the one who had done such great things, wonderful and wild changes, and then suddenly out of nowhere appeared to have succumbed to madness and the overwhelming desire to kill Harry. He didn’t know Voldemort was part Faerie, or that he was Voldemort’s mate, or that Peter was teaching Tarrant all about the Darker side of the Dark Lord while Harry only learnt about all of the good things he had attempted. He didn’t know why Voldemort wanted to kill him, because his parents and Sirius refused to answer his questions, and Severus and Remus looked uncomfortable when he brought Voldemort up and Kreacher didn’t know. But Harry wanted to know, because when Voldemort came back, like his grandfather warned that he would, it wouldn’t do to admire a man who would kill him the first chance he got. So even as he learnt all he could about Voldemort, he accepted Severus’ duelling lessons and planned to become great, like Ollivander said he could be, and do great things and terrible things too if that was what became necessary in order to protect his family. 

But that wasn’t important right now, because he had other things on his mind at this particular moment. Names were being called alphabetically, from a’s to b’s to c’s and it seemed to take forever until Professor McGonagall started reading out the surnames beginning with p. 

Kreacher had warned him, sneaking into Harry’s bedroom as he finished packing his trunk for Hogwarts, Elphaba coiled around his shoulders and chest, that everything would change when he got to Hogwarts. Tarrant and Harry thought things would go back to the way things used to be, the way things had been this last wonderful month of August, but Kreacher had insisted that Sirius and his brother’s lives had changed drastically once they started Hogwarts. That was because they had been sorted into different Houses. 

Harry had laughed it off, because Tarrant had been so vocal about getting into Gryffindor, that Harry would beg if he had to, to make sure he was in the same House as his brother despite not fitting the characteristics at all. Tarrant wanted them to be together, and a resorting was a small sacrifice to make to keep his brother happy. He had told Tarrant this on the train, and Tarrant had smiled, relieved. Harry thought it was gratitude, from Harry’s offer to stay with him. But Tarrant no longer wanted to go to Gryffindor. Lord Voldemort had been a Slytherin, and the more Tarrant learned of him, the more he wanted to be like him in every way. The way to start doing that? He had to be sorted into Slytherin, and if Harry didn’t fit Gryffindor, he might end up in Slytherin with him, or Ravenclaw which wouldn’t be too bad because it wasn’t Gryffindor and they could still be friends. 

But when Harry’s name was finally called, and he sat upon the small three-legged stool with the pointed, ragged sorting hat upon his head, he begged for Gryffindor, despite the fact that Slytherin would lead him on his way to greatness. The hat was about to agree, opening its brim to shout the word “GRYFFINDOR”, as Harry curled his hands in his robe pockets, one clenching around the bloodstone that he had insisted on carrying with him because he couldn’t sleep without it. With a pulse of magic, as Harry squeezed it tight, the stone glowed red in his pocket, and one of the teachers at the Head Table, a pale man in a purple turban narrowed his eyes at the back of Harry’s head in suspicion. Was this Tarrant, he wondered, perhaps McGonagall had gotten them confused. He waited with bated breath for the sorting hat to speak, even as his Lord’s magic surged within their shared body, feeling the call of his mate and the pulse of magic the stone emitted as Harry continued to squeeze it tightly. 

The hat felt the pulse too, and it blinked lazily, changing its mind with the same breath it had been about to expel and shouted, “SLYTHERIN!”

Tarrant clapped the loudest out of all the first years, and even louder than some of the students at any House but Slytherin, who welcomed Harry over with wide smiles and loud applause. Draco shifted over to make room for his betrothed, who his father had warned him never to fall in love with though he hadn’t been told why not. Harry sat beside him, and then Tarrant’s name was called, second to Harry because ‘t’ came after ‘h’ after all. 

They would be in Slytherin together, him and Harry, and even though Draco was there it wouldn’t be hard to find someone older who would be willing to frighten Draco off for him, once he established himself as Lord Voldemort’s mate. Once he was in charge of Slytherin house, Draco wouldn’t dare come near his brother again. 

All his plans came crashing down around his ears as the hat spoke to him, in a horrid drawl that sounded half-amused and half-mocking. It made Tarrant’s jaw tick, and his hands clench from anger rather than nerves, and he drowned out it’s irritating voice and it’s ridiculous words, chanting in his mind, “Slytherin, Slytherin, have to be in Slytherin. The Dark Lord’s mate has to be in Slytherin.”

“Yes, he probably should be, and he is, don’t you worry. But you, what about you?” The hat said, and Tarrant shouted back inside his head, telling the hat to stop lying, stop trying to help Harry steal the Dark Lord away from him, but it wasn’t a lie, because the hat had recognized the magic of the bloodstone and the aura of the Wizard who had made it, remembering it from Tom Riddle’s own sorting. “So unafraid, so angry. Do you not fear the Dark Lord? He is capable of terrible evils, child, quite terrible, and he will not be quick to forgive this trickery, so whoever is putting such ideas in your head should stop at once.”

“Shut up you stupid hat and put me where I belong!” Tarrant almost jumped off the stool, jaw clenched, but McGonagall shoved him back down with her hands on his trembling shoulders.

“So rash, so demanding,” the hat chuckled, its brim moving though no sound escaped it. “As you wish Tarrant Potter. Where you belong is… GRYFFINDOR!” 

Tarrant moved towards the red and gold table in a daze. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t hear the applause, louder than what Harry had received from the school body. He couldn’t see his mother’s worried gaze from the Head Table or Dumbledore’s contemplative one, or the strange pale professor’s disdainful frown. But he could see Harry, sitting surrounded by green and silver, beside the blond haired Draco Malfoy who would never be as good as Lord Voldemort, and he was cheering and clapping and standing in his seat, grinning widely because he thought Tarrant would be pleased with his sorting. 

You were supposed to force the hat to put you in Gryffindor, Tarrant thought in Harry’s direction, with narrowed, angry eyes. Lily watched him, sitting stiffly next to Ron Weasley once the sorting was over and the food had been served, the anger on his face quiet apparent, and she worried. She worried because she had never ever seen either of her sons look at the other with that much hate in their gaze. 

And Harry, surrounded by Slytherins, smiling and laughing and eating, didn’t seem to notice Tarrant’s upset or anger, but Lily did. She watched, unable to do anything, as Tarrant slipped that little bit further away from them. 

**XXX**


	7. Chapter 07

OMG. I am nearly finished with Chapter 08. And do you know? I never actually posted chapter 7 here... why? How did I forget? :/ My bad guys! Here you go.

 

I hope you like this one! Thanks to Star_Faerie for beta’ing, as always. 

* * * 

**Words** : 5,671  
 **Chapter 7**  
September 6th 1991. Hogwarts. 

Potions was fast becoming Harry’s favourite class. 

He liked Defence Against the Dark Arts too, but the Professor left much to be desired. There was something odd about Professor Quirrell that everyone had noticed but that no one could quite agree on. It might have been the strange purple turban he wore that stank of garlic, or it could have been the fact that he stuttered at least six times in every sentence, or perhaps it was his strange habit of staring at the Potter twins as he gave his lecturers, eyes on Tarrant’s lips or Harry’s scar. Or maybe it was that one incident where Harry had been playing with the bloodstone, and Quirrell had confiscated it. He had tried to give it to Tarrant after class, and the moment the boy’s skin touched it, the stone crumbled to dust. And yet, the next day, Quirrell noticed Harry Potter playing with the stone at breakfast, Dumbledore’s phoenix sitting perched on his shoulder, both of them looking undeniably smug in his direction. 

There was something off about Quirrell, and whatever it was, it put Harry off of Defence. He had taken to zoning out during classes, and doing extra reading in the library after lunch to make up for it. But Potions, he had nothing bad to say about Potions. 

His godfather, Severus, taught it. And while the man was one of those sink-or-swim teachers, Harry had been taking extra lessons with the man for years and knew exactly what it was Severus was trying to explain, though he didn’t really try and explain anything. Mostly, he took house points, or told you to “follow the instructions on the board”, that no one but Harry and Draco, who were used to the spidery writing, could read properly, or he called you a “dunderhead”. But mostly, that last one was for the Gryffindors. 

The Slytherins shared Potions with the Gryffindors, which meant that Harry had this class with Tarrant. On the first day, Harry had tried to sit next to his brother. But Tarrant, still upset with Harry for being sorted into the House he belonged in, didn’t protest when Ron Weasley told him that that side of the classroom was for Gryffindors only. So, Harry paired with Draco, and smiled in Tarrant’s direction every once in a while. 

In their second class, they were making a simple elixir. It didn’t really do anything other than smell nice and bubble in its cauldron, and was invented mainly to teach bumbling eleven-year-olds how to counter-clockwise stir five times in a minute. But everyone who didn’t know that was very excited because it meant that they would actually be making a potion. A real potion. Like a real Wizard! 

Though, not many of the elixirs turned out as they should, and Snape was very quick to deduct points and make disparaging comments. Tarrant’s was fine, it was a passing grade, mostly because today he had paired with Hermione Granger, and she actually seemed competent in the subject. But Harry’s and Draco’s potion was still better, and Snape recognized that fact, quite loudly.

“Mine was better!” Tarrant hissed angrily after Snape had moved on. He was leaning back on his chair, talking over his shoulder at Seamus and Ron who were sitting at the desk behind him. 

He and Hermione had gotten a “tolerable”, whereas Harry and Draco had received five points each for Slytherin. Ron pointed that out, noted that they were both Slytherins, both slimy, filthy snakes like Snape, and that Tarrant should have expected that. 

“But he’s friends with my mum; I should have gotten house points too!” Lily was the Muggle Studies teacher, having taken her post back from Charity Burbage who was covering during Lily’s self-imposed exile. “It’s just not fair.”

“I don’t know, mate,” Seamus started softly, rubbing at his chin in thought. There was an Irish lilt to his voice, and his hair was sand blond and hanging in his eyes. A dark skinned boy at the table behind that table perked up as Seamus spoke, having made friends with each other on the train rather than in the dorm room like Tarrant and Ron. “Maybe Snape can’t tell them apart, and confused this potion for Harry’s potion?”

“That’s a nice thought. Just start wearing a green tie, and you’ll get all the house points!” Dean added, laughing under his breath while casting wary looks around for lurking professors. 

“Yeah, for Slytherin!” Ron mumbled angrily. And that was the end of that conversation. 

Hermione sat silently beside them for the whole conversation, never once looking up from her potion, never saying a word. She wanted to tell them why they hadn’t gotten house points, she wanted to tell them how unfair they were being to Harry, and how rude they were by addressing the professor by his surname alone, but they weren’t her friends, and the last time she had joined a conversation without an invitation she was told to butt out rather rudely. 

Her potion was perfect, it was better than Harry and Draco’s. But her partner was Tarrant Potter, and the Severus had not missed the twins’ fight in the hallway before class, nor had he missed Tarrant telling Harry he was disgusted by him, that the whole family were. To think, a Slytherin in the Potter family? Such a disgrace, he had said loudly and angrily, never mind the fact that Tarrant had wanted to be a Slytherin, or that James had celebrated both of their Sortings with a 68-year-old bottle of champagne, or that Harry was a Parselmouth and his parents were proud of that too. Snape had heard it all, and he had noticed the way Harry’s hands had clenched and his eyes had watered and how Ron had high-fived Tarrant while the group of Gryffindors snickered as if it were any of their business, and as if Harry wasn’t the only Slytherin outside the classroom at the time, alone, undefended. Ganged up on, just like Severus had always been, (though Hermione didn’t know quite that much). 

She thought, quite amused, as Professor Snape slid over to their desk and started to berate the boys for talking in class, that a little humility wouldn’t steer Tarrant wrong. If this professor could be the one to do that, well, good for him. 

_XXX_

September 9th 1991. 

Their first flying lessons hadn’t gone exactly to plan. From what the elder Slytherins had told the first years when they asked, it would be a pretty straight forward lesson. Madame Hooch would take them onto the pitch, they would be made to float their brooms, mount them, and touch off the ground. Any higher than a foot in the air and they’d be sent back inside, any daring aero-dynamics and they’d be in detention faster than their brains could comprehend, and any shoving or jostling and they’d be banned from Quidditch until their heads of house said so. They’d get off their brooms, after touching back down, and throw Quaffles at one another to get the feel of them, they’d get to swing the beaters bats, in groups of sixes (because that was the total number of bats Madame Hooch had in her possession), and then they’d go inside. It was, they were told, less of an actual flying lesson, and more a recruitment campaign for next year’s Quidditch team. 

They’d do a lot more flying after Christmas though, the Head boy of Slytherin had told them. Though, they’d still have to use the crappy school brooms. 

But that wasn’t what had happened at all. 

They were sharing class with the Hufflepuffs this time, and even Harry, who was usually so nice to everyone, had to admit that this year’s bunch were sort of pathetic. They were huddled together, in their grey uniforms and their yellow accents, trembling at the very sight of the brooms. Only one boy was willing to give it a chance without prodding by Madame Hooch. His name was Justin Finch-Fletchley, and almost as soon as he mounted his broom, he was up in the air and away, screaming hysterically the whole time. 

Harry and Draco muffled laughs. As eleven-year-olds, they hadn’t quite understood the concept that a fall from that height could kill you. Instead, they just found it funny how Justin flailed and screamed, imagining themselves in the Hufflepuffs place, calm and poised and winning the Quidditch House Cup. They nudged each other, whispering that they could fly better than that, that they could catch Justin if he fell because it couldn’t be much harder than catching a Snitch, and that really was the only failing point of their relationship. They both wanted to catch the Snitch, they both wanted to be Seekers, and both of them couldn’t be because after all the team only had one Seeker, and there were two of them. 

Justin fell. And no one caught him. But when Madame Hooch brought him into the hospital wing, one of the other Hufflepuffs accidentally released the Snitch by sitting on the trunk and knocking it over. 

“Oh crap!” Hannah Abbott cried, before pressing her hands to her mouth as if to keep other curse words safely inside. 

“We have to get that back!” Another Hufflepuff added. 

“Madame Hooch will probably blame us,” Pansy Parkinson said with a sneer, casting a dirty look at the Hufflepuff girl responsible. 

“I’ll get it,” Harry and Draco said simultaneously, casting each other challenging grins which turned into frowns when neither appeared to back down. Both boys mounted their brooms, and both boys took to the sky after the golden snitch, and neither pulled back or slowed down to let their betrothed win. 

The Snitch hurtled towards the floor, gaining speed the closer it came to the ground. With a shriek of panic and a healthy dose of self-preservation, Draco pulled the nose of his broom up, snapping up away from the ground and back into the air. He panted harshly, watching in morbid curiosity as Harry continue to fly down, down, down until he was only a foot above the ground and sure to die a horrible death. The other students stared, unable to look away, though the thought of watching a fellow child die was horrific to them. It was like a train-wreck. You just had to see it happen, to see and know and never, ever, turn your back in case the debris were shooting towards you unsuspecting. 

Professor Quirrell watched as well, his Lord’s magic roaring inside of him, curling and writhing and _hurting_ him as he stood with his wand sheathed and watched the Chosen One hurtle to his dead. Something within him fought against it, shouted and screamed to do something, magic curled around his hands, wanting out, wanting to protect. But Lord Voldemort ruthlessly squashed it down. This was not Tarrant. This was not his mate, nor was the boy in anyway important to him alive. This was his enemy, the one prophesized to defeat him, the one who had destroyed his body, who had stolen the bloodstone from Tarrant, who coveted what was not his to covet. It was better for everyone if the child died now. Like it would have been better to kill him as a baby, to save his family the agony of watching him grow up only to lose him to death anyway. Dying when you were too young to be afraid of death was better, Voldemort thought, than to have the boy crying and terrified before his wand in five years’ time. Harry was an enemy yes, but an equal too if the prophecy was to be believed, and he deserved a death fitting that. This would be a death befitting his Gryffindor heritage. Any self-respecting Slytherin would have pulled up long before now. 

And yet, there he was. Pulling up. His heels skimmed the ground for only a moment, and then Harry was back in the air, hollering and cheering with the snitch clutched tightly in one outstretched fist. His Hufflepuff classmates were shrieking too, jumping around and hugging one another, while the Slytherins watched with open mouths and clapped hesitantly, as if unsure what they were seeing. 

Surely the boy was dead? Was this his ghost they wondered? 

But no, it wasn’t. It was Harry and he was real and alive, and tucking the snitch back into the Quidditch trunk Madame Hooch had dragged onto the field. 

“That was fun.” Harry grinned widely, brushing his wind-swept hair back out of his face. He grinned at Draco, who was dismounting his broom and running towards the brunette. They hugged, fiercely, though Harry was chuckling breathlessly. 

“You idiot! I thought you were going to die!” Draco hissed against Harry’s neck, squeezing his shoulders tightly. “But that was a brilliant catch!” 

Voldemort watched them celebrate; trapped in Quirrell’s body the professor was forced to watch too. Something burned hot inside of him as the two Slytherin boys hugged, and something tugged at his memory, something he had read shortly after possessing Quirrell. Something about those boys, but whatever it was he couldn’t remember and he told himself it didn’t matter. 

Unbeknown to him, he wasn’t the only Professor who had almost watched Harry Potter die. Severus had seen something hurtling towards the ground out of the corner of his eyes as he made his way through the school. He had turned to look, his heart shooting up into his throat as he recognized both of his godsons, and while he was too far away to catch either of them, he cast as many cushioning charms as he knew on the ground, on the boys, on the brooms. But none of them had been needed, because Draco had pulled up, and Harry had pulled off a perfect Wronksi Feint. But he had also seen Quirrell, clenching his unarmed hands together, eyeing Harry’s rapid dissent with something strange passing over his features in turn, one interested, one excited, and something desperate, before beginning again. And Severus wondered, did Lord Voldemort know?

 _XXX_

September 20th 1991. 

Harry had made the Slytherin Quidditch team. He hadn’t needed to try-out, nor had he been told to wait until his second year. His successful Wronski Feint had been enough to guarantee him the team’s seeker position for the rest of his Hogwarts time. Severus vowed never to tell Lily about how Harry had ended up on the team, because she would kill him, Quirrell and Harry too, and if anything of her son was left after her anger had transformed into worry, she’d probably lock him in a box and take him everywhere with her so she could keep an eye on him. As amusing as the notion was, Severus had no wish to be on the receiving end of Lily’s wrath. 

Most of the school was excited by the fact that Harry had made the team. The Slytherins had completely disregarded the idea that it was meant to be a secret and had happily bragged to everyone who would listen about Harry’s prowess on a broom and his new Seeker position. Of course, he had no broom, but James and Sirius were both equally excited to provide one for the youngest Seeker in a century. Lily had told Harry about the two fighting in her office the other day, both wanting to be the one to buy Harry his first Hogwarts broom, and in the end they had agreed that James would buy this year’s Nimbus 2000, and next year when the 2001 model was rumoured to be released, Sirius would buy Harry one of those too. Neither of them chose to hear how wasteful and ridiculous that idea was, and letting them have their own way would guarantee more peace for everyone in the long run. 

But not everyone was as excited about the prospect. Tarrant was angry, because once more Harry was stealing the limelight. And sure, he didn’t like Quidditch and he didn’t want to play it anyway, but it would have been nice if he could have had a broom too! Just because he was a first year shouldn’t mean they treated him any differently than his brother. Wasn’t that Dumbledore’s great plan, equality? Well where was that equality now, Tarrant thought angrily as Harry excitedly unwrapped his Nimbus 2000 at the breakfast table. 

The Slytherins all seemed smug and proud, puffing out their chests and exclaiming that Harry had practically guaranteed them the Quidditch cup with his Wronksi stunt. But Draco Malfoy sat three seats away from him, instead of plastered to his side, and was glaring moodily into his porridge. 

“Hey Dray!” Harry called over, but the blonde didn’t even look up. “You want a go later?” Harry asked, because he was used to sharing his things with Tarrant or Draco, and he enjoyed giving and usually Draco would give something back. His family had lots of old books and Harry enjoyed being allowed to borrow them, just as Draco enjoyed borrowing things from Harry.

But today, Draco pushed away from the table with an angry, “No thanks”, and left the great hall. 

Harry happened to bump into Tarrant leaving the hall. The two of them walked together to the staircase that separated both of their dorms, Harry below, and Tarrant above. “Congratulations,” Tarrant whispered. Because despite how angry he was, even the Gryffindors who had seen the famous incident talked about how brilliant Harry was, and Tarrant knew that his brother was a pretty good flier. 

“Thanks.” Harry gave his brother a one-armed hug, the other arm squishing his new broom against his side. “I think Draco might be angry with me though. I only told people yesterday about getting on the team, and he hasn’t really spoken to me since. I don’t know why though.”

As understanding as Tarrant wanted to be, he couldn’t forget about what his mother had said, about Harry being stronger and more powerful, and what Peter had said about Harry trying to take Lord Voldemort from him. Sometimes, for someone who was so much better than Tarrant apparently was, Harry was rather stupid. He bit his tongue at first, to stop himself saying something horrible, because he wanted things to go back to the way they were, and Harry and Draco fighting would help him immensely. It would keep Harry away from future Death Eaters, and similarly from Lord Voldemort, who would then be all Tarrant’s. But the more Harry complained the angrier Tarrant got. It was petty, and jealous, and mean, but Tarrant couldn’t help it. A voice that sounded like Peter’s said the words first inside of his mind, and his mouth moved without him realising and before he could think better of it, the words had escaped him and couldn’t be unsaid.

“Maybe if you didn’t show off so much, everyone would stop being angry at you and not hate you so much!” 

“You hate me?” Harry whispered, looking dejected. Tarrant suddenly felt guilty, because he hadn’t meant to say it. Yes he had meant it, but he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, and now Harry was scuffing his toes and looking like he was going to cry, and if Snape walked passed them Tarrant knew he’d end up failing his next potions class. 

But fortunately it was Professor Quirrell who found them first, and before Tarrant could even respond. “Move along boys,” he told them, dropping one hand onto each of their shoulders. The hand squeezed Tarrant’s shoulder lightly, but when it touched Harry it stung and burned, and Quirrell jerked his hand back, while forcing the cry of pain back down his throat. “Classes start soon.” 

They separated, Harry heading down one set of stairs, and Tarrant up the grand staircase. Despite his best efforts to turn his head towards Tarrant, Voldemort found his eyes fixed on Harry’s retreating back, his slumped shoulders and bowed head, and he felt the overwhelming urge to harm the one who had caused Harry to look so defeated. But he couldn’t, he reminded himself, for Tarrant was his mate. And he shouldn’t, he considered, for Harry was his enemy. And that was that. 

_XXX_

October 31st 1991. 

Tarrant wasn’t sure what had possessed him to do this, but here he was, doing it anyway. His mother was going to be so angry with him, he thought, ducking to avoid the swing of the troll’s club. His father would be so proud though, he reminded himself, using the knowledge to bolster his crumbling bravery. Harry had never defeated a troll; Harry had never fought off a magical creature and saved a girl’s life. Hermione might have been a Mudblood, but she was still an eleven-year-old girl that he had rescued. Surely the professors would be pleased with him, surely his parents would reward him, and surely, surely, Lord Voldemort would see that he was better than Harry? Harry wouldn’t be jealous, Tarrant knew, because Harry never was. When Harry wanted something, he got it, it was one of the perks of being the Boy-Who-Lived, if his family wouldn’t give it to him someone else would, even Lucius Malfoy fawned after the boy. But Tarrant had earned this, and Tarrant would have the respect and admiration that this earned too. 

The Gryffindor ducked again, falling onto his stomach on the wet bathroom floor. The Troll’s club missed him by inches. Behind him, Ron was trying desperately to cast spells with Percy’s cast off wand, and failing. Hermione was trembling, cowering beneath a row of destroyed sinks, but occasionally she cast a spell, distracting the Troll so Tarrant could climb to his feet, or collect his wand that he had dropped, or throw things at the Troll in the hopes of knocking it unconscious. 

Despite all his posturing, Hermione had effectively saved herself and the two boys. It was only dumb luck that led to Tarrant hanging off of the club while the club raised it, and then falling onto the Troll’s head and knocking him to the ground. Disorientated, and struggling to stand on the slippery floor, the Troll was down long enough for all three to shout “Stupefy!” The Troll was unconscious at last, and the three Gryffindors, bonded by so much more than any of Harry’s friends had been, looked at each other and grinned. 

And then the Professors came, and those grins turned to frowns and sniffles as they were chastised. 

So much for glory, Tarrant thought, so much for respect. If it had been Harry, he bet silently, the boy would have been praised throughout the school, Chosen One that he was. Tarrant was no match, no matter what he did, and it was only Professor Quirrell’s hand on his shoulder that kept him from shouting angrily at the Headmaster as he took ten points off each of them. 

“But they saved me!” Hermione exclaimed, lying to them about how they had ended up in the bathroom in the first place. No one needed to know that Ron had made her cry and she had been hiding there, or that Tarrant had made Ron feel guilty about making her cry, and followed her there, or that they had accidentally locked her inside with the Troll before Ron had felt braver than he should and suggested they rescue her for the house points, and that Tarrant hadn’t cared about her, only wanted to show up his brother. But with her first lie, a beautiful friendship was formed, but each of them still lost house points, and Tarrant remained behind with Quirrell as everyone else went their separate ways. 

There was something off about Quirrell. Everyone knew it, but none of them knew quite what. Snape suspected, but no one would listen to his suspicions. Quirrell had taught there for years, which should have been suspicious in itself because Voldemort had cursed the Defence position, but Albus had played it off as Voldemort’s defeat having weakened the curse.1 But being around Quirrell made Snape’s faded Dark Mark burn and writhe under the skin, and every time he grabbed onto it to ease the pain, he found himself subconsciously wanting to Apparate to his master, to prepare himself for a meeting that couldn’t be taking place, not since Lord Voldemort’s defeat. But Albus trusted Quirrell, and the man seemed to be taking an interest in Tarrant the way Severus did with Harry, which was good, because that boy could use more people than Peter in his corner. 

But Severus still had his suspicions. 

Tarrant had none of those suspicions, except that there was something wrong with the man, just like everyone always said. He couldn’t take his eyes off of him, from the moment Quirrell entered the bathroom, and then when his hand was on Tarrant’s shoulder, the boy had the strangest urge to bare his throat in submission, to fall to his knees beside the man and proclaim his loyalty before all of the other teachers who were watching. And now, alone together, Tarrant couldn’t help but stare once more. He rubbed his left arm subconsciously, the place where Peter had drawn the Dark Mark once with the tip of his finger, letting him feel the shape and size of it, and allowing Tarrant to imagine it in his mind’s eye, dark and deep and etched on his skin forever. And now, that imaginary mark was throbbing, and Tarrant longed for it, longed to reach out and uncover this man’s left arm, because surely he had one too. 

Quirrell felt so much like Peter did when they were alone. There could be no other explanation now that Tarrant thought about it, and he felt unbelievably pleased with himself, for figuring out what no other adult had noticed. Professor Quirrell was a Death Eater. Like Peter, Quirrell would know that Tarrant was the Dark Lord’s rightful mate, the one that belonged with them, above them. That must be why the man was always so nice to him, giving Tarrant house points, and always picking on Harry, calling out questions to the elder twin who everyone knew was never listening in class. 

“Hello,” Tarrant whispered at last, with a shy smile. He was glad to have another friend, another one loyal to their Lord, to guide him and train him, to help him be better than all others so that the Dark Lord would find him worthy. 

Quirrell nodded back in silence. Lord Voldemort watched through Quirrell’s eyes, taking in the blood and dirt smudged across the boy’s face, the shy smile on his pale pink lips, the boy who was beautiful admittedly, but nothing like his brother who had looked wind-swept and victorious as he caught the snitch that day Voldemort had spied on him. Harry had been beautiful, more so than his brother, with green eyes sparkling behind glasses, brighter than Tarrant’s hazel ones that gleamed with reverence and loyalty, whereas he imagined that Harry’s would spit fire and distrust at him. The Dark Lord found the vision arousing. His mate, dark hair and flushed, on his knees before him, green eyes bright and angry and lips swollen from kisses but pressed in a straight line, demanding silently that Voldemort make it all worth Harry’s while—Tarrant! Tarrant’s while, he corrected angrily. 

His mate from his dream, beautiful and seductive, in a stripy pinafore, and sunhat, what colour eyes had he had? Green or hazel? The Dark Lord couldn’t remember, and he hadn’t had a dream of his own since his defeat ten years ago. But there shouldn’t have been a question of it. Peter had sent the bloodstone to Tarrant. Tarrant had activated it; regardless that Harry had later stolen it. Severus had only been lying to protect his godson, Severus lied, it was part and parcel of being a spy. Lucius had betrothed his boy to Harry Potter, and he would never have dared if Harry had truly been Voldemort’s mate. 

And yet. There was something about Tarrant that left him disappointed, something about the boy that was lacking somehow. Lord Voldemort wondered what it would have been like, to watch Harry battle a Troll. Would he have been braver, more adventurous with his spell work, less clumsy? Would Harry have been a worthy adversary? 

In silence, Quirrell moved passed the youngest Potter and made his way out of the bathroom and back to his office. Voldemort watched, seeing from behind the turban though no one could see him, as Tarrant watched them leave, looking angry and rejected and determined. He wondered what Tarrant thought he could do to catch the Dark Lord’s attention; he considered what Tarrant would be willing to do. And everything he came up with, Lord Voldemort found wanting. 

Against his will, his mind found itself wondering, imagining a world with only one Potter child, with only Harry, where there was no question as to who was his mate, where he didn’t feel a pang in his borrowed chest at the thought of hurting Harry and keeping Tarrant and where his mind didn’t rebel at the thought of hurting Tarrant and keeping Harry. There was no question of which, his mind or heart, was right. No question of how hard Tarrant would have to work for his attention, because Harry already had it. From the moment he had heard the first part of the prophecy, from Severus’ lips, Harry Potter had had his attention. Despite Voldemort’s best efforts, the boy had yet to lose it. 

_XXX_

November 9th 1991. 

It was the Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch match, Gryffindor’s first and Slytherin’s second of the year. It had been Harry’s most memorable one. All of his family had turned up, and each of them had been subjected to the sight of Harry dangling in the air, hanging onto his Nimbus for dear life. Severus and Lily, seated together in the teacher’s stand, had worked to de-jinx his broomstick. Slytherin had won and Harry had caught the snitch, but the excitement of that did nothing to override the gossip that travelled through the stands about how Snape of all people had been trying to kill Harry. 

Only Snape had seen Quirrell sneaking off once the jinx had broken. Everyone else had been too focused on Harry catching the snitch in his mouth, but Snape had been looking out for the guilty party, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone suspicious, for anyone like Quirrell. 

He shoved his fellow Professor against the wall, having caught up with him just inside of the school’s entrance. If Snape had known that this was the Dark Lord, he might have thought better of his actions, but he didn’t know. So, he continued with his plan, shoving Quirrell once more, hard enough to rattle the man’s teeth. Snape was up in his face, hissing angrily, while his hands pinned Quirrell’s shoulders to the wall, arms trapped behind the man’s back. 

“What do you think you’re playing at, Quirinus!”

“I-I don’t k-know what-t y-you me-ean!” 

Severus snarled at him then, teeth bared in a horrid parody of a smile, and Voldemort felt a vague sense of amusement at the situation. He had forgotten how temperamental Severus was to those who were not his pet Mudblood or his Lord. Though, with Tarrant as a mate, perhaps he should refrain from insulting the boy’s mother? 

“You will stay away from Harry Potter!” Severus warned him. 

Quirrell gave a snort; suddenly feeling less afraid of Severus, because of course Lord Voldemort was scarier. “The Dark Lord will-” He tried to protest, but another shake from Severus made him fall silent. 

“The Dark Lord is wrong, Quirrell, and you will refrain from doing anything that he will come to regret.” 

Quirrell’s mouth dropped open, and within his mind the Dark Lord fell silent and speculative. Wrong? Could he, Lord Voldemort be wrong? No, no, Severus lied, it was what he did, how he made his living, a spy and a liar but a brilliant potions master so the lies could be forgiven. He was protecting his godson, again, as he had once begged for the boy’s life. He must be lying, for Tarrant activated the bloodstone, and Peter promised him, and Peter was too cowardly to lie, so it must be true. But Harry, Harry was far more interesting, and he had not wanted to leave the boy’s nursery on the night of his defeat, but perhaps that was a ward of some sort? To protect the boy, or his brother? It could not have been Harry himself, he had been too young to perform such magic, and the bloodstone could not have saved him, something else must have, and though he couldn’t remember exactly, he was sure his mate in his dreams did not have green eyes. Harry was the wrong twin, Harry was the prophesised twin, and the one surrounded by Light Witches and Wizards, Mudbloods and Dumbledore, and Tarrant was the one with a godfather who was a Death Eater, the godfather who had handed over Harry Potter on a silver platter while Severus Snape begged for his life. Tarrant would be the easier mate to have, the easier one to get to, to seduce and court, and Harry Potter would only cause him problems. So no, he couldn’t be wrong, he couldn’t be. 

“He is wrong,” Severus told them once more, before turning and striding away without a backwards glance. 

Quirrell and Voldemort were left watching him retreat, an uneasy calmness settling over them, leaving no room for amusement or anger at their treatment by his servant’s hands. He was not wrong, he couldn’t be. And yet. Severus had seemed so sure, so perhaps? 

But no, something within him insisted, the part of him that still clung to his pride and superiority, though he was reduced to nothing more than a ghost in borrowed flesh. Lord Voldemort was never wrong. 

**XXX**

1 – According to the HP wiki, he was Muggles Studies Professor until Harry came to Hogwarts and Voldemort possessed him. But since I have Lily as that Professor in this story, let’s say Quirrell was always Defence. 

* * *

Thanks again. Please leave a review, or a smiley face, or cookies, or something!


	8. Chapter 08

**Words:** 3,980  
 **Chapter 8**  
December 25th 1991. Hogwarts. 

Though it was Yule time, it was their first Yule while attending Hogwarts and neither of the Potter children particularly felt like leaving just yet. Lily, being a professor, was also allowed to stay at the school. James flooed over on Christmas morning, and together with his children and (unfortunately) Severus, they met at Lily’s office at 6am that morning. 

Harry and Tarrant had woken half an hour earlier, each the sole occupant of their dormitories, and each with a pile of presents under the tree in their common room. Tarrant, recognizing Peter’s hand writing on one box, had gathered all of his presents but that one and carried them precariously to his mother’s office. Harry had gathered them all up, uncaring what was from who because they were _presents_ , and still in his pyjamas he had run all the way to the Muggle Studies corridor. 

Harry bumped into Professor Flitwick on the way, shouting an apology as he ran passed. The small professor only chuckled, crying back, “Merry Yule, Mr Potter!” 

It was a Potter household tradition to open presents on Yule morning surrounded by family. The main family was there, along with Harry’s godfather Severus, but when the floo lit up in green, two other godfathers tumbled out. Peter was missing, but that wasn’t very unusual: Lily didn’t really like him visiting unless she could help it, and Severus was always quick to back her up. 

When everyone who was coming was there, the children scrambled down to sit on the floor by the tree, and the adults took various seats around the room armed with tea and coffee and scones. One by one the presents were opened up, and the majority of them were the general ‘I didn’t know what to get you so I got you this’ gifts that people receive at Christmas, or when they have enough money to buy things they want so no one knows what else to get them but stuff they don’t want. However, this year, Harry received a very special gift. 

It was a cloak, and on the outside it shone in purples and blues and silvers, and on the inside it was very dull indeed, until someone was inside of it. And then it simply disappeared, as if it had never been there at all, and it took its wearing with it. 

“AN INVISIBILITY CLOAK!” Harry hollered, sounding every inch the eleven year old he was. “Cool! Thanks dad!” It was more than just an invisibility cloak, but Harry didn’t know that yet, and James had yet to realise it either. But someone else had, so it was no surprise really, that Albus Dumbledore had gifted Harry with his sister’s old copy of ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’ that year, annotations and all. 

Tarrant skipped breakfast that morning, choosing instead to let everyone head to the Great Hall while he practically ran back to his dormitory. He tore into the box from Peter, frantic and angry, determined, desperate to have a better gift than an invisibility cloak inside. And there was. There was! Though they weren’t expensive or pretty or valuable, the books within the box were the best things that anyone had ever given Tarrant. One was entitled ‘The Darkest Dark Lords’ and another ‘The Greatest Wizards of Your Lifetime’, and the last wasn’t titled at all but on the cover was a picture of the dark mark and Tarrant’s eyes almost fell out of his head when he opened the front cover and realised it was a manifesto, written by none other than T. M. Riddle. 

He waited until breakfast was over, flicking quickly through the pages of one book after another, trying desperately to force down his excitement until he thought he would burst. But he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Tarrant was overwhelmed by the _need_ to see Harry, to gloat that his gifts were better, even if they had been cheaper, because surely Peter had gotten the manifesto from the Dark Lord himself? Where else would he have gotten it? It wasn’t likely that this Riddle fellow had tried to promote their ideals publically before the Dark Lord rose, was it? So, obviously this gift, this one in particular, was for Tarrant from the Dark Lord (even though it wasn’t and Peter actually had simply found it buried under a pile of dusty books in Burgin and Burkes). Tarrant wanted to brag, to be better, more special for once in his life. And he was halfway to the Slytherin dormitories when he realised that even if he did go to see Harry to brag, and even if he really was that petty, he couldn’t tell his brother what was so important about this gift, because Harry wasn’t a Death Eater like him and Tarrant didn’t want Harry knowing anything about _his_ Lord Voldemort. 

Fortunately for Tarrant, he found something else to take his mind off of the disappointment that dawned in the wake of that realisation. There was an empty classroom to his left whose door was usually kept locked, but today as Tarrant walked by it, the door was left wide open and he caught from the corner of his eyes something glinting brightly. Curious and disappointed, Tarrant allowed his feet to bring him into this classroom instead of back to Gryffindor Tower. 

There was a mirror inside. It was huge, almost the height of the ceiling, and beautifully engraved with words that Tarrant couldn’t read and pictures of things he had only seen in story books. But the best part about the mirror was that when he looked into its glass, he saw two people and those two people were happy. Tarrant’s reflection was dressed as it had been in Voldemort’s dream, in a strippy pinafore with a wide brimmed hat and strippy socks. He was older, taller and his eyes were a wide, hazel, half-hidden beneath the fringe of his curly, dark hair. Behind him stood a man who was even taller than Tarrant had grown to be. He was pale, with dark hair and the strangest coloured eyes Tarrant had ever seen, and when the man bent down to kiss him, Tarrant knew exactly who he was. 

“My Lord?” Tarrant breathed, reaching out to brush the fingers of his right hand over the mirror. The couple continued kissing, but Tarrant’s reflection glanced away from Voldemort’s face for a moment to meet Tarrant’s gaze. Hazel clashed with hazel, and the reflection’s eyes narrowed, but Tarrant thought he would have been smirking if his lips hadn’t been attached to the Dark Lord’s right then. 

_XXX_

May 6th 1992. Hospital Wing. 

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked, shifting slowly to sit up in the small hospital bed he had been lying on. The sheets were bunched up at his feet, but the closer Tarrant came to him the more eager Ron was to pull the sheets up to his chest and hide the embarrassing homemade pyjamas he was wearing. He usually slept in his boxers in the dorm, but madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let him sleep so unclothed in her domain, and so Ron had been forced to pull out the ugly yellow and red knitted pyjamas his mother had made him last year. They were garish, and itchy and the arms and legs were too short, and they had a horrible orange ‘R’ sewn on his chest and snitches all over his legs, and Ron’s face turned as red as his hair as his eyes travelled over Tarrant’s obviously expensive, but now burnt, school robe. 

“Got hurt practising a spell,” Tarrant told him stiffly. He didn’t want to admit that Voldemort’s manifesto had included a handful of curses, jotted in hurriedly almost as an afterthought, to make up the final chapter of the book. There were directions on wand movement and pronunciation, and one or two had a hand drawn diagram that hadn’t been very helpful, but since there was no counter curse mentioned, Tarrant had no option but to go to the infirmary after one of the curses had backfired and burnt his arm. He had wiped the tears off of his face at the door, because he had seen Ron’s head through the little door-window, and he hadn’t wanted to look weak in front of his dorm mate. However, when the spell had failed, Tarrant’s screams had been heard by every ghost loitering in that particular ‘empty’ hallway. “What happened to you?”

Ron sighed loudly. “I suppose you’ll hear about it tomorrow at breakfast. My mum will probably send a Howler.” He sighed again, frowning heavily, and Tarrant wondered for a moment if Ron was really as worried as he was making himself out to be, because Ron usually loved the attention that followed pulling a particularly stupid stunt. Like that duel they had challenged Malfoy to a couple months ago, and ended up with detention in the Forbidden Forest, but receiving a round of applause from their housemates when they had finally been allowed to go to bed. Ron had enjoyed that. Tarrant had been happy, because the detention had been with Professor Quirrell. “Hagrid was raising a baby dragon in his house. Hermione and I had to help him sneak the dragon out to my brother, who works on a dragon reserve in Romania, but the dragon escaped and I got hurt. Hermione is ok though. Madam Pomfrey checked her over and said she could leave, but she had to regrow some of my bones and the burn paste isn’t working as quick as it should, so I have to stay.”

Madam Pomfrey choose that moment to appear, hand over her chest from the shock of seeing Tarrant, red eyed and puffy faced from crying, with the sleeve of his left arm melted into his skin. “What happened to you?!” She exclaimed, rushing towards him with her wand out. 

“He-” Ron started to say, but was stopped by Tarrant butting in over him. 

He didn’t want anyone to ask where he had learnt the spell from. He didn’t want anyone to take the books away! Tarrant certainly didn’t want Harry hearing about this and deciding to do some extra studying of his own, because this way only Tarrant would be smart, advanced, special, and not Harry. Tarrant would be the one people would pay attention to then. When he had mastered all of these spells, and surprised everyone at the duelling competition his dad said the Ministry were going to hold at Hogwarts next year (they had even asked Gilderoy Lockhart to teach them!), then no one would dare think that he was less than Harry ever again. 

“I was with Hagrid earlier! I didn’t want my mum to find out so I didn’t come here, but now it really hurts Madam Pomfrey, it really hurts! Please don’t tell my mum?” Tarrant sniffled, trying to look pathetic. 

“But-” Ron said. The read head shot Tarrant a look, brows furrowed in confusion, and when the medi-witch had her back turned, Tarrant shot Ron a filthier look back. Ron shut his mouth, still frowning, but didn’t bother to try and correct Tarrant again. 

_XXX_

June 4th 1992. Hogwarts. 

When the last exam was over, Harry, along with nearly every other person in Hogwarts, disappeared back to their dormitory to celebrate the end of the school year. The first years excitedly started packing up their things, even though the train didn’t leave Hogsmeade until the 20th, because the OWLs and NEWTs were still on-going. The second years, having learnt from their mistakes the year before, left their stuff alone and joined the third and fourth years in their common rooms for sweets and drinks and games. The sixth years generally had private parties of their own, with Butterbeer and the occasional snuck in Fire Whiskey or rum and blinding headaches the next day. The fifth and seventh years hadn’t had an exam that day; instead, they were all holed up in the library studying for the exams that would begin during the following week. 

Tarrant, Hermione and Ron, however, were doing none of those things. 

They were as luck would have it, on their way to stop Professor Snape from stealing the Sorcerer’s Stone. “I told you Snape was a traitor,” Ron hissed, jogging breathlessly behind Hermione. 

“Professor Snape,” Hermione corrected, not looking over her shoulder though the boys knew she was scowling. 

Tarrant brought up the rear. He was running slowly, which forced the other two to slow down every now and then to let him catch up, but that was a good thing. Because _he_ wasn’t there to stop the professor. Not that he even thought it was Professor Snape, no, because Snape was with his mother right then, talking about plans for the school holiday, and Tarrant had only let him out of sight for ten minutes before Hermione and Ron had grabbed him, shouting about how Dumbledore had left the school and that now was the time. So it couldn’t be Snape. But if it was the Dark Lord that wanted the Stone, then it might be Quirrell trying to steal it, and Tarrant didn’t want to stop him. Oh no, Tarrant wanted to help him, so that Voldemort would see, would know, that he was loyal and useful and special. But he wanted to give Quirrell a chance to find the Stone first, before his friends drew too much attention to the hiding place and the third floor corridor. 

_XXX_

Voldemort glanced in the Mirror of Erised. He looked out through Quirrell’s eyes, waiting and hoping, and eventually his mate appeared beside his reflection. But he did not look as he did right then, less than human; instead, he was more like his old self, tall and thin with curly dark hair and dark blue eyes, and handsome. His mate, by his side, in his arms, lips against his lips in the mirror, was wearing the strippy pinafore from his dreams, but there was a line across his face like a magical blindfold that obscured his eyes. Voldemort could see the sockets and the lashes and the eyelids, but the colour of his mate’s eyes escaped him. They could be emerald or hazel or any other shade of green in existence, and all Voldemort could make out was that they were green. 

The Dark Lord was moments away from shaking the mirror and demanding it let him view his mate fully, when noise behind him startled him. 

Quirrell spun around, wand outstretched. Voldemort felt the lips on the other man’s face curl up, cruel and cold, and the Dark Lord chuckled loudly even as Quirrell began to speak. “Harry Potter, so you have come,” the Professor whispered, while Voldemort fell silent to watch. 

“Look in the mirror, boy!” Quirrell ordered, when Tarrant didn’t respond.

The youngest Potter glared, annoyed at being mistaken for his brother. But then he remembered his first Potions class, and Snape telling him his potion was rubbish, and his Gryffindor friends joking that no one could tell him and Harry apart. Maybe the same could be said for Voldemort? After all, creatures couldn’t actually find their mates through innate magic until the younger was at least fifteen, and Tarrant wasn’t even twelve yet, so maybe Voldemort knew it was him, but didn’t really _know_ it was _him_? 

So he allowed himself to be pushed in front of the mirror, smiling softly as the same couple he had seen before appeared in place of his reflection. He would get them the Stone, Tarrant told himself silently, holding out his hand as his double did the same. In the mirror was a fat red stone, and Tarrant reached out for it, knowing he did not want to use it for himself, but for another, to gain favour from another. Having no use for the Stone, Dumbledore’s protections failed to block him, and the Stone appeared, dark and tempting in the palm of Tarrant’s hand. 

“Potter!” Quirrell shouted, but his voice had taken on a hissing quality, like static when two radio stations attempt to play over one another, when the frequency is wrong. “Give us the stone, Harry!” 

“My Lord,” Tarrant whispered. He turned from the mirror, lowering himself to his knees with the Stone held out from his body, offering it up to his future lover. 

Voldemort glanced down at the boy again, taking in every one of his features, from the curly dark hair to his hazel eyes and frowned. He had felt uneasy with the boy in the room, uncomfortable with Quirrell’s hand on the boy’s shoulder, but he had assumed it was a part of the prophecy, or left over from what protection had defeated him many years ago: had assumed that this was Harry, not Tarrant. 

“Mate?” He questioned quietly, unnerved when Tarrant stared up at him with wide, adoring hazel eyes. They were not the green of his dreams, spitting fire and challenging him with every glance; but then, Voldemort hadn’t had a dream of his own in such a long, long time, so perhaps he was forgetting the details or confusing them with dreams of Quirrell’s own. This was his mate, this boy, and Tarrant would grow up and so, Voldemort would grow into the connection they shared, surely? 

“ _Stupefy_ ,” Quirrell murmured, waving his wand at Tarrant. 

When the boy was unconscious, curled with his legs against his chest on the floor, Quirrell left Hogwarts. He took the Dark Lord and the Stone with him, and was never seen again. 

_XXX_

June 8th 1992. 

Tarrant woke up four days later in the hospital wing. His mother was there, and Remus, but no one else. When he had asked where everyone was, they had told him with Harry. 

Feeling worried for a reason unknown to him, because Tarrant hadn’t worried about Harry in a long time after all, he pulled himself from the bed and begged to be dismissed. When he was allowed to roam the school again, he went in search of his brother (likely to reassure himself that when Voldemort left him behind, he hadn’t taken Harry along). He found Ron and Hermione first, leaving the great hall and scowling over their shoulders. The room was bursting with sound, cheers and applause and excited whistles from one end of the room to the other, and Tarrant leant over the stairs bannister so he could peek in through the gap in the doors. Dumbledore was standing at the head table, with his arms spread wide, and behind him, and from every ceiling beam, hung a Slytherin embroidered banner. 

“What’s going on?” Tarrant asked, jogging down the stairs to meet his friends.

“We lost ten house points each,” Ron muttered, kicking angrily at the ground, “for endangering ourselves needlessly. Bet we would have won points if we’d stopped Quirrell.” Hermione obviously agreed because she didn’t correct Ron’s less than respectful address of the man. 

Tarrant felt a little guilty about that, because really he was the one to let Voldemort get away without even trying to do anything to stop him. “Right. So Slytherin won?”

“We had equal points.” Hermione told him, as she crossed her arm over her chest. “But you missed the last Quidditch match of the year while you were unconscious, and Harry caught the snitch, and Slytherin won by ten points,. But Gryffindor and Slytherin still had _equal_ House Points, until the Headmaster took ten away from each of us.”

“Slytherin won,” Ron grumbled, “slimy cheating bastards.” 

Tarrant glanced up, angry at Harry now, though it wasn’t really his fault, rather than worried. When he searched through the hall for his brother, instead of catching Harry’s eyes, he caught Dumbledore’s. The elder man had taken his seat again, and he sat at the head table with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching Tarrant with a frown on his face and a suspicious squint to his eyes. The man suspected him, certainly, but he’d never be able to prove anything, Tarrant told himself, narrowing his eyes at the Headmaster in return before looking away. 

“I’m not hungry,” he told his friends, blood traitors and Mudbloods though they were, but they were his and not Harry’s, so they’d do. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, and Hermione nodded, “I don’t want to go back in there anyway.”

 _XXX_

June 20th 1992. King’s Cross. 

There was a man standing right at the exit of Platform 9 and three-quarters. He was tall, and thin, and he was wearing a nicely cut dark suit that could have been blue or could have been black, but Tarrant thought it was probably black, because he couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord in navy. Red eyes watched curiously as children were herded passed him and out through the barrier. Some people apparated away and some took Portkeys, but the majority of them had to walk, unsuspecting, passed Lord Voldemort to get home. Tarrant watched, eyes wide and anxious, for something, some sort of recognition, for anything. He was moments away from throwing himself at the man’s feet, and pulling at his pant leg like a child, when Voldemort’s head finally turned away from the busy barrier. 

Voldemort glanced over at the train, eyes narrowed and intense as they focused on one person and one person alone. Harry Potter jumped down onto the platform, Hagrid meeting him there just long enough to hand him an early birthday present before shooing him in the direction of Tarrant and their parents. Lily and James smiled and nodded at him, James’ left hand on Tarrant’s shoulder in what should have been a comforting gesture but that just felt heavy and unnecessary instead. His mother was on his other side, an arm slung arm his shoulders, and Tarrant flinched away from her as she moved quickly, almost elbowing him as she took back her arm, to run to Harry and hug him instead. 

Voldemort’s eyes remained on Harry as Lily hugged him, and then as James hugged him; they narrowed when the Malfoys appeared and Draco pulled Harry into a tight hug and made him promise to come visit as soon as possible. Never once did his attention leave Harry. Voldemort might have been telling himself he was studying the enemy, might have mentally insisted it was necessary, this staring, to destroying Harry in the long run, but Tarrant had seen the look Lord Voldemort wore before. There was something in his face, in his eyes, that reminded Tarrant of James Potter whenever he knew both boys would be out of the house simultaneously. Tarrant had caught him looking at Lily like that once, and asked what it meant, why he was doing it. James had said he was hungry, and Lily had giggled, and Tarrant had scrunched his nose up and left the room, not wanting to watch his parents kissing, (which by the way had nothing to do with eating, since they were supposedly hungry and all). Voldemort looked ‘hungry’ too, and maybe not in the same way as his parents, since Harry wasn’t wearing the same expression his mother always did; but Voldemort was wanting, and wanting someone other than Tarrant. 

As the Potter family made their way out through the barrier, Tarrant reached out and let his hand brush lightly over the sleeve of Voldemort’s suit. Even at the small touch, the Dark Lord did not look up at him, nor look away from Harry. Tarrant found himself regretting the fact that the Hogwarts Express stopped moving once it docked at the platform, because, he thought while glancing over his shoulder at _his_ mate who continued to watch his brother until Harry was through the portal, he would have dearly loved to push Harry under a train right now. 

**XXX**


	9. Chapter 09

This isn’t beta’d, because I figured it has taken me long enough to update as it is without adding another two weeks of editing on top… 

Also. Time skip. It’s almost, almost, almost time for Voldemort to find out the truth. Hope you like it. 

* * * 

**Words:** 3,900  
 **Chapter 9**  
November 24th 1994. Hogwarts. 

That night Harry dreamt of a man sitting in a high backed chair in an empty looking room, with a snake coiled around his waist and shoulders. He spoke softly, to a very familiar looking man who stood half hidden by shadows in the corner of the room. Harry had stood in the doorway, unseen by the other occupants of the room, though the snake occasionally turned her head in his direction and flicked her tongue in and out. 

Voldemort spoke of his mate, sounding excited and almost fond at the thought that there was less than a year to go before the boy came of age to be sought out. Harry had shuddered at the thought, pitying the poor boy; not because this man was unattractive looking, but rather because he was terrifying. Even the cowering man in the corner was afraid to look at him properly. But that wasn’t a problem for the other man, because Voldemort was no longer staring at him. Voldemort was staring at Harry now, and his red eyes were wide and his pale lips were pursed with surprise. “Tarrant?” He whispered, pushing at Nagini so he could stand and go to his mate. 

“Tarrant?” Harry repeated, his eyebrows furrowed. He had a good idea who this man was, because he had dreamt about him since the Philosopher’s Stone went missing back in his first year, but he couldn’t understand why Lord Voldemort of all people would know his brother’s name, or confuse them. No one really spoke about Tarrant. Dumbledore gave Harry private lessons, and the Malfoys brought Harry on holiday, and the newspapers ran a big article on him when the Death Eaters escaped from Azkaban that summer, but no one ever really made a big deal of Tarrant except for Peter. 

The man in the corner looked up at the sound of Harry’s voice. Green eyes met the watery blue stare just before Harry woke up, sitting straight up in bed with a gasp. His hands scrambled desperately, pushing under the pillow and grabbing hold of the bloodstone that Harry kept close to him at all times. It pulsed lightly in his grasp, and he took three deep calming breathes, before he felt the bed dip and Draco wrapped his arms loosely around Harry’s waist. 

“Nightmare?” He asked softly, glancing around to see if any of their other dormmates were awake. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. 

“Same one as before? With You-Know-Who?” Draco wasn’t sure where he stood with the Dark Lord. His father always, always reminded him about how loyal they were, but here he was with his arms around the Boy-Who-Lived, engaged to him, who would marry him when they graduated, and who comforted him after nightmares about Lord Voldemort. But he was loyal, and his father said that one day Harry would be loyal too, that the Dark Lord would lay down his life for Harry Potter only he didn’t know it yet, and it was Draco’s duty, as a loyal Death Eater to protect that Dark Lord’s mate, even from himself. Draco dropped a kiss to the back of Harry’s neck, “go back to sleep, you have a long day ahead of you.”

Harry allowed Draco to tug him back down, content to curl against Draco’s chest, with the bloodstone held in his right hand and Draco’s pyjama top in his left. Before he fell asleep, he whispered, “Peter was there.”

Draco frowned as he watched Harry sleep. His father had told him all about his plan that past summer. He had been at the age where Lucius thought he would understand, and so Lucius had explained; about Tarrant and Harry, and him and Severus and Peter, and the Prophecy. Lord Voldemort had thought it meant that Harry would grow up to kill him, but the Potters and Dumbledore and they too had thought that Harry must have been his mate, as vanquish didn’t mean to kill, and the bloodstone had chosen Harry. But Peter, poor, cowardly Peter, was so desperate to be in favour that he had convinced himself and Tarrant and the Dark Lord that Tarrant was his mate, the only one, and that Harry Potter must die. Peter, who would never lie, who would be too afraid to lie, could not possibly be lying, not even to himself, and so Voldemort believed him. But this year, this summer, it would all come to a head, because Harry would turn fifteen in July. And Voldemort would know. 

Three hours later, Draco woke Harry up. It was time for the first task. 

As Harry made his way into the area, gulping heavily at the sight of the Hungarian Horntail chained to a rock, not very securely he might add, a man with red eyes sat beside Lucius Malfoy in the spectator’s stand and watched. There was no urge to seek out his mate in the crowd, though he knew Tarrant must be sitting beside his parents or his Gryffindor tag-alongs who weren’t quite friends. Instead, he found that his eyes wouldn’t leave Harry Potter, who ducked and dodged and weaved spectacularly, remaining untouched by the dragon, until the moment when the chain broke. 

“No!” He shouted, jumping to his feet, the majority of the observers copying his motion. Lucius beside him gasped loudly, his wand automatically falling into his hand, though he made no move to use it because intervening would lead to disqualification and his Lord wanted to meet Harry at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. 

But Harry was away on his broom, and the crowd was wild with cheers and cat calls and screams of praise. And Undersecretary Gaunt slumped bonelessly back into his seat, his heart beating at a terrifying speed in his chest. Across from him, in another stand, Tarrant watched with narrowed eyes. But he told himself, as the judges scored his brother, that Voldemort hadn’t been worried about Harry’s death: Voldemort merely wanted to kill Harry himself. That was all. Nothing more. 

_XXX_

January 21st 1995. 

Harry brushed his wet fringe out of his eyes with one hand. His other hand clung to the strap of his bag, the golden egg wrapped inside of his towel and hidden inside. He had figured out the clue with a little help from Moaning Myrtle sneaking into the bath beside him and making him drop the egg into the water while screaming in surprise. But at least he had figured out the clue. Feeling like celebrating his success, Harry dug into his bag, searching for the map the Weasley twins had dropped one night on the way back from detention a year ago. It had been pretty easy to use, considering he recognized the names that had wrote themselves across the parchment when he had first tried and failed to use it. Messers Prongs, Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail just happened to be members of his family, so he had wrote to his dad and then to Sirius just in case his dad wasn’t allowed to tell him the password (cause sometimes his mum was strict about things like this). But both of them had written him back and told him. 

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” Harry whispered at the parchment. It unfolded, lines dancing across the paper until a full map of the school was on view. Little feet appeared here and there, and Harry glanced at each of them in turn, carefully trying to spot the prefects or professors because he wanted very much to avoid them on the way to the kitchen. But one name jumped out at him, more so than any other, and Harry found that suddenly he didn’t want cake or Butterbeer or pudding. He wanted, inside, to seek out Tom Riddle, because it had been two years since the last time he had seen the boy. 

“What are you doing back in Hogwarts?” Harry asked himself, even as he tucked the map back into his bag and pulled out his invisibility cloak instead. Throwing it over his head, he made his way towards Snape’s office, where Tom Riddle was loitering outside. 

When Harry was a little closer, he checked the map again, noting with disappointment that Tom had gone inside of the office and was with Severus. But he could wait, he told himself, he could wait to see his friend again. So he pressed himself back into an alcove, eyes fixed on Snape’s door until it swung open, and he had to press his hands over his mouth to stop himself from exclaiming at the man who left with Severus. That wasn’t Tom Riddle! Tom Riddle had been sixteen years old, and beautiful and kind, and had lovely blue eyes and the slightest point to the tip of his ears when they last met. But this man was Undersecretary Gaunt, and he was Lord Voldemort, though no one believed Harry when he tried to tell them at the Opening Ceremony for the Tournament. Red eyes glanced around the corridor, right over Harry, and then back, because the tip of one shoe was poking out, and a deep throated chuckle followed the narrowing of his eyes. 

“Come out, come out whoever you are,” Riddle murmured. At his side, Severus felt like slapping himself in the face, and he glowered at his godson’s sheepish face as it appeared out of thin air and the invisibility cloak found itself quickly shoved back into his bag. 

“Hey Uncle Sev,” Harry said, waving at his godfather and determinately not looking at Voldemort, “just came down to ask you about that extra credit assignment for class?”

They had spoken no name, and Voldemort hadn’t tried to kill anyone either. Severus took a deep breath, arguing with himself within the privacy of his mind before coming to a stupid, but safe, decision. “Five points from Gryffindor for being out after curfew,” Severus snapped. 

Voldemort glanced between them, before his eyes landed back on Tarrant and a small smile tugged up the corners of his lips. Harry shuddered, though he didn’t protest the lack of points because, well, he was a _Slytherin_ so who cared if Gryffindor was in the negatives already? Harry was thankful though that he had decided to wear his pyjamas back from the prefects bathroom, and that they weren’t the ones Draco had bought him that Yule, because these ones weren’t green and Voldemort didn’t need to question Severus at all. 

“You should be resting, Potter,” Voldemort whispered, and Harry cringed as the man reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Fortunately, he hadn’t tried to touch his hair or face like most people did because while water was sticking his fringe flat to his forehead, touching it would probably put the lightning bolt scar on display. “Young minds need to be fresh to absorb as much knowledge as possible.”

Harry glanced between the Dark Lord and at the godfather who was shaking his head minutely. “Yes,” he agreed, biting his tongue to stop himself from screaming, don’t touch me. “Sir,” he added reluctantly. He pulled away from the touch, feeling a little bit sorry for Tarrant, because Tarrant would have to marry that man when he grew up and Harry would get to marry Draco who _didn’t_ make his skin crawl, but he was also infinitely glad that it was his brother, not him. “Bye,” he said sharply, turning on his heel and walking away as fast as he could manage. 

Harry had spent the summer after his second year, (the year he had found a diary that wrote back in Lucius’ study and ‘borrowed’ it, the year he had met Tom in the diary, in his dreams, and in the Chamber of Secrets, their secret place), feeling guilty for like-liking someone other than Draco, his betrothed. But now Harry shuddered at the thought of fancying Tom Riddle, because according to the map, Riddle had been Voldemort the whole time. It had all probably been a plot to kill him, yet Tom never had (Riddle, he reminded himself, Voldemort, not Tom), hadn’t tried to hurt him, though he had been angry when Harry had told him about Draco. He had never once asked for Tarrant, though perhaps, like many people, Tom Riddle couldn’t tell the twins apart either? 

Not that it mattered. 

Voldemort’s ideals had been interesting, especially the way Lucius had explained them to Harry. They made sense, and Severus had explained that Voldemort hadn’t always been the way the media described him as, yes dangerous and cruel, but never evil, never abhorrent until the day he tried to murder a baby but even then he had spared the family, and failed regardless. And even then Harry found himself hanging onto every word, on the edge of his seat, waiting and wondering what else Voldemort had done, could do. He appreciated Undersecretary Gaunt, much more than anyone but a few had agreed with the old Undersecretary Umbridge. His policies were sound, and a little fantastical, but with hard work and dedication and patience each of them could come to pass and each were for the best of everyone. Unlike the old policies, that discriminated between classes and species and blood status. These were to benefit everyone, to avoid all Muggles, to protect all Magic, to promote all classes of magic both light and dark and the shades of grey between. 

Harry was excited about his NEWTs, because since Gaunt’s new magic classification doctrine passed through the Wizengamot, Hogwarts was now bound to offer an elective for NEWT level students in Dark Magic and spell weaving. It was the second Harry was most interested in, because Severus had created his own spells, and so had Sirius and Harry wanted to as well! 

Dark Arts, well, it wasn’t like Alastor Moody wasn’t already teaching him a bit here and there in secret. He was friends with Dumbledore, and often accompanied Dumbledore to Potter Manor; kidnapping Harry for a training session that always turned into a free for all and left Harry limping passed his mum praying that she wouldn’t notice the state of him. Moody believed that you couldn’t fight something without knowing what you were fighting against, and that’s where the lessons came in. Tarrant had asked to join once, and he had taken such pleasure in using the _Cruciatus_ against an enlarged spider that Mad-Eye had refused to allow him to sit in on any other sessions. He had told Dumbledore why, but the man had only sighed heavily, asking again for Moody to change his mind, because he knew someone was teaching Tarrant (who, he didn’t know), and it was better to learn from someone they all trusted than someone they didn’t. Moody had refused, but Peter was more than happy to pick up the slack. 

So Harry learnt from Dumbledore and Alastor, and looked forward to his new electives because it was an opportunity to learn. Tarrant wanted only to please his Lord, and this class, as Peter insisted, was the place to do it. To show he would be useful on a raid, to show that he could defeat and subdue his enemies, to entertain his Lord with their screams. Maybe they deserved each other, Harry thought as he slipped back into his common room. Because Voldemort’s touch made Harry’s skin crawl and lately so did the way Tarrant looked at him. 

So yeah, Voldemort could get them confused as much as he wanted, as long as in the end he married Tarrant. Because Harry admired his genius and his policies and his drive, but he couldn’t stand the sight of him. The thought of having to touch Voldemort made him feel sick. 

_XXX_

June 24th 1995. Little Hangleton. 

It had been astonishingly easy to take Harry Potter by surprise. With a little help from Peter during the Hogsmeade weekend, Tarrant had finally learned how to cast a full-body transfiguration. Scabbers, who had been ‘eaten’ by Crookshanks last year, had miraculous turned up on Ron’s bed that morning, stunned and unconscious, and then had woken up later on in a cage. Ron wasn’t letting him out of his sight, carrying the caged rat wherever he went, so with Harry out of the way, Tarrant had hurried to the Slytherin dorm and banged frantically on the wall. 

“Forgot the password. In a hurry.” He had gasped at the startled first year who had opened the wall. He had shoved his way inside, found Harry’s dorm and dressed in his brother’s battlerobes. Now, here he was, standing face to face with Lord Voldemort. The Portkey had dropped him and Cedric in the middle of a cemetery, and Peter had immediately appeared from behind a gravestone and cast the killing curse at Tarrant’s tag-along. He would have felt guiltier about Cedric’s death if the other boy had done as he was told and fucked off. Tarrant had gotten to the cup first, fair and square, but Cedric had shoved him and accused him of cheating (and so what if he had Crucio’d Fleur? She had deserved it, and Krum had done it to her as well, so whatever), and tried to grab the Portkey right out of his hands. It hadn’t activated until a _true_ Champion had touched it, as it was spelled to do, so Cedric had activated the Portkey. Without Cedric, Tarrant wouldn’t even be there right then, and that was something to thank the dead boy for, he supposed. Couldn’t feel guilty when he was feeling so thankful, right? 

The Dark Lord glanced between the dead boy and the boy kneeling at his feet, and he frowned. Something wasn’t right, he thought as he raised his yew wand to prod the tip against Harry’s forehead. But there was no scar there when the wand brushed the fringe away, no blemish covered by make-up either, but to be sure he cast a ‘ _Finite_ ’ and watched as nothing happened. 

“Tarrant Potter, what a surprise.” Voldemort glared at Peter, as if this was his fault. Though it was. It had been Peter’s idea to surprise the Dark Lord, before his fifteenth birthday, to offer what belonged to him so that Dark Lord would not have to wait another five weeks. But the Dark Lord looked angry instead of pleased. 

“Where is Harry Potter?”

Harry, Harry, Harry, Tarrant thought, trying not to scowl. It’s always about Harry fucking Potter. 

“He is indisposed my Lord. I apologize on behalf of my _brother_ for his absence and poor manners.” Tarrant shuffled a little closer, knees scraping across the ground. He leant forward, mouth pressing against the hem of the robe Voldemort wore, a soft, quick kiss, before the man was pushing him away with one foot. 

“What are you doing?” Voldemort hissed, eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms over his chest, wand gripped tightly by one hand. He thought back to the first time he met Harry while masquerading as Professor Quirrell, and the dirty looks the boy had shot him anytime he got into trouble; the back chatting, the eye rolling, the “but it’s wasn’t my fault… (and a pause followed by a reluctant) sir”. Tarrant had never done any of those things. Firstly he had respected his Professor, and then he had been in awe of a fellow Death Eater, and then he had offered up the Stone happily, wholly, and now he crawled in the dirt at Voldemort’s feet where Voldemort could never, never imagine his mate to be. 

Harry would never bow to him of his own free will, Voldemort could tell that from the few meetings they had years ago, and the one time he ran into Harry that year he had been borderline disrespectful and untrusting, but unfailingly polite to Severus in comparison, fond even. Voldemort wondered if the boy just didn’t like strangers, or if he didn’t like him? Perhaps, he thought, glancing down at Tarrant who continued to kneel but now looked as if he would cry from Voldemort’s rejection, Harry knew who he was? Surely, his greatest enemy could pick him out in a crowd? Just as he would be able to pick out his mate in five more weeks? They were destined, equal according to prophecy: Harry would not bow and scrape before him when they finally duelled to the death. No, Harry Potter would stand tall, wand raised and steady, glaring defiantly at him with those piercing green eyes. 

Voldemort shook himself, blinking to rid himself of the thoughts of emerald green eyes and red lips, because his mate was hazel eyed and pink lipped and kneeling at his feet. If his brother would stand tall and proud before death, then Tarrant would damn well do the same for his mate. 

“Stand up, Tarrant,” Voldemort commanded in a whisper. “Why are you here?” 

“I came to gift you something, my Lord.” Tarrant brushed off Harry’s battlerobes and the dirty patches around his knees, though the dirt stubbornly clung to the fabric. The Dark Lord waited, silent. Peter watched from the side-lines with a smirk on his face, because surely the Dark Lord would not resist his mate, surely now all of his planning would come to fruition and _he_ would be the most loyal once more, the most trusted, over Snape and Malfoy and all others. Harry would be ripe, ready to die, lured to his death by his own twin, and Lord Voldemort would no longer have to skulk in the shadows, playing the part of the politician because there would be nothing left to fear once the prophecy was out of the way. 

Tarrant didn’t say anything else. Instead, he lurched forward, awkward and inexperienced, and pressed his mouth against Voldemort’s own. Voldemort’s eyes widened, but there was no sudden surge of lust, no overwhelming desire to take what was his, to complete the bond that had been broken for over fifty years. Tarrant was not his mate, but he didn’t not agree with that. The bloodstone had been for Tarrant, and Peter would not dare lie to him, and the boy would not be so stupid as to pretend to be something he was not, and surely Lord Voldemort would know his own heart and soul? He told himself instead, as he softly pushed the teenager away, that it was because the boy was too young, because the bond wasn’t ready yet. In five weeks’ time, he would come for his mate, and he would take then what Tarrant was so readily offering now. 

With a wave of his wand, the Cup flew towards them. Voldemort stepped back, and ignoring the body of the other student on the ground, he magically nudged the Cup at Tarrant. As the Portkey activated, Tarrant smiled softly, no longer hurt or confused, because he had won, (though pretending to be Harry, but he had won nonetheless and people would have to acknowledge that), and he had been allowed to kiss the Dark Lord, his betrothed. It had been his first kiss, and it had been wonderful. In five more weeks, he reminded himself as the Portkey spun him through the air and back to Hogwarts, he would offer the Dark Lord another of his firsts, every one of his firsts, and he would be of age for Lord Voldemort to accept. 

**XXX**

 

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Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought? (It’s been a bad few days, so reviews will be hugged and kissed and cherished).


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